


Chemistry of a Car Crash

by HildegardtheB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actors, Adolescent Shenanigans, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Break Up, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, High Adventure, High School Hijinks, Horrible Life Choices (by characters and author), Hurt/Comfort, Impossibly Complicated Timelines, Loss, Shouting into the void, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Space Knights, The Freaking Kitchen Sink, The Last Vestiges of the Author's Sanity, Way Too Many Storylines, medical drama, oaths and vows, television shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 195,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HildegardtheB/pseuds/HildegardtheB
Summary: Over a decade ago, Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth were actors on the culturally iconic and certifiably cheesy, teen drama "Westerosi" (think of a slightly more obscenity-laced "Degrassi" ). They played Alyce “Dunc” Duncan and Roman Webber -- enemies who become begrudging friends and eventually fall in love.Their chemistry on the show is off-the-charts, and Jaime and Brienne soon become "Westerosi’s" it-couple.  However in real life, the two barely tolerate each other -- and that’s on a good day. Not surprisingly, when their term on the show is up, they part ways expecting never to speak again.Flash forward to ten years after their final show. Jaime is involved in a horrific car crash. During a night of black despair, he calls Brienne. She is shocked. And suspicious. And doesn’t know what to say. Because they despise each other. They utterly and completely despise each other. Well … don’t they?
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Robb Stark & Brienne of Tarth (just a hint. The La Croix version)
Comments: 2602
Kudos: 1346





	1. A Beginning Song

**Author's Note:**

> “Coming out of my cage, and I’ve been doing just fine. Gotta gotta be down, because I want it all."*
> 
> So I’ve totally lost my mind. Seriously. This a ridiculous concept and far too complicated to make work effectively. The sheer amount of characters, storylines, and exposition this premise requires is stupid and daunting and extremely ill-advised. Blame the fucking pandemic. No clue what I’m doing, but then who does, really? I also shouldn’t be posting until I have more of this written. But -- la la la, what the hell. 
> 
> And now please enjoy the following public service announcement:
> 
> Even though I sometimes quite enjoy reading it, I tend to shy away from writing the whole enemies to lovers trope. 
> 
> Here’s my issue: I feel like the world excuses the bad behavior of men (especially attractive men) far too often. The idea of romanticizing such behavior -- once again saying, “Oh, he is only treating her like shit because he really likes her or doesn’t know any better or had such a terrible childhood or has never experienced true love before” -- just doesn’t sit comfortably with me. If the power balance were equal, I could stomach it more (i.e. Jaime’s behavior when he is Brienne’s prisoner doesn’t rankle as much because she has the power). However, in a modern setting it’s trickier. 
> 
> In real life, if I see a man (even an extremely attractive man) being awful and insulting to a woman, I immediately lose all attraction to him and instead find myself plotting his untimely and painful demise. He loses all currency as a romantic hero for me, even if he eventually ends up changing. You see, it's difficult for me to be interested in his “romantic redemption” because he was such a flaming dick to the woman to begin with, and surely said woman could do much better, despite said flaming dick’s dishy looks and foxy smile. 
> 
> All that being said, this fic is going to attempt the enemies to lovers trope (did I mention losing my mind?). So I think it only fair for me to issue a warning: Jaime is going to be a total shithead in some scenes. Please feel free to despise him and to harden your heart against him. He should have to work very, very hard to win your forgiveness and approval. And if he doesn’t, so be it. Actions should have consequences, even for the extremely beautiful. 
> 
> Also, just FYI, acting is a weird-ass profession in terms of sexual politics and consent issues. If that is a trigger for you, please mind this chapter. 
> 
> All right, let’s see if I can pull this off. Fasten your seat belts, children. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. 
> 
> Shout out to the Shiny Toy Guns for the fic title!
> 
> *The Killers

**“A Beginning Song”**

**The Decemberists**

**“Let's commence to coordinate our sights**  
**Get them square to rights**  
**Get them square to rights”**

**~~~~~~**

**Twelve Years Earlier:**

She couldn’t do this.

There was no way she was going to be able to do this.

Yes, Brienne was an actor. And yes, pretending to be someone else and doing things one wouldn’t normally do was, in fact, the very description of the job. But acting or not, there was no way in hells Brienne could fucking do this.

When the script had first come, Brienne hadn’t been shocked. She had realized long ago that her character arc was heading in a less than ideal direction. However, ever the optimist, she had tenaciously clung to the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, the writers would take pity on her. After all, they seemed to like her -- expanding her supporting role into a series lead and giving her better storylines than she could have ever hoped for when she had first started the job.

No, when Brienne had initially won the part of Alyce “Dunc” Duncan on the long-running, teen drama _Westerosi_ , Dunc had been just a minor player -- the fourteen-year-old, baby sister of basketball star and all around good guy Brandon Duncan. In those days, Brienne had been lucky to get a few lines thrown her way every other episode. And she had been grateful for what she was given.

Standing at six foot three at fourteen years of age, Brienne knew she wasn’t ever going to be anyone’s vision of the romantic heroine. And thus she had been quite content with Dunc’s minor storylines of building robots for the robotics team and nicking her brother’s ADHD medicine to help her study for exams. However, everything had changed about a year into Brienne’s contract when Dunc was given a major storyline in a fateful episode entitled simply “The Bet.”

In “The Bet,” Dunc was the unwitting target of a bet made by the Westerosi High football team. The bet was a simple one: whoever could seduce the most pathetic girl at Westerosi High (namely Dunc) and take her virginity would win a pot of money. Dunc, scholastically brilliant but socially inept, spent most of the episode blissfully unaware that there was, in fact, a bet. Pathetically naive, she reveled in the extra attention and praise she was suddenly receiving from all of the popular boys -- shyly accepting each boy’s compliments and blooming under their sweet words and soft looks. That was until Ron Connington, star wide receiver and all around nasty bastard, had managed to get Dunc up into his bedroom during a wild house party. He had just finished stripping off Dunc’s shirt and was on his tiptoes assaulting her neck when he broke. Deciding that he couldn’t go through with the bedding because Dunc was way too tall and way too freakish, Ron had laughed and thrown Dunc’s shirt in her face, telling her to come back when she finally grew tits.

It was a brutal episode and had stretched Brienne far outside of her comfort zone. However she had been up to the challenge. Her performance was raw and real and entirely brilliant -- especially her scenes with Jaime Lannister. Jaime Lannister, who played gorgeous, cocky, basketball star with a hidden soft spot, Roman Webber. Roman was Brandon Duncan’s arch nemesis and, previous to the episode in question, the number one tormentor of poor, awkward Dunc. However with “The Bet,” Dunc and Roman’s fraught, antagonistic relationship was about to take a turn.

When Dunc, shattered and humiliated, had fled Connington’s bedroom, running out through the remnants of the drunken party, she had been stopped by Roman. Roman had pulled her into the kitchen, where she had proceeded to fall apart and tell him everything. His past assholery forgotten, Roman had comforted Dunc, giving her his letterman jacket to cover her ripped shirt and tucking her into a safe corner, while he went upstairs to beat the shit out of Connington.

When Ron had been thoroughly pulverized, Roman had then driven Dunc home, assuring her that she had done nothing wrong and that she would be okay. She was strong and smart and better than all of those assholes put together. And, despite the fact that Roman was generally a conceited prick with a mild-to-moderate God-complex, in the close confines of his battered sports car, Roman swore that he wouldn’t let anyone at school laugh at Dunc. He swore on his honor that he wouldn’t let her become a joke.

It had been a truly incredible scene, Brienne shaking with silent sobs in the front seat of Roman’s car, and Jaime, overcome with the emotion of the scene, pouring everything he had into Roman’s rough compassion.

And that had done it.

That one godsdamn episode.

That had changed the trajectory of Dunc’s character arc and had indelibly linked Dunc Duncan to Roman Webber for the rest of Brienne and Jaime’s _Westerosi_ run.

Initially, the characters had simply been reluctant allies. Roman was still a total dick to Dunc most of the time, even though he did try his best to protect her. But then, when Dunc had learned of Roman’s dyslexia and the shame he felt surrounding it, she had wormed her way into his cold, jaded heart by helping him with his school work. And by the time Dunc had bravely stood up to Roman’s controlling, alcoholic, horror show of a father, their friendship had been cemented. Much to the audience’s delight, Dunc and Roman became real friends -- an incongruous pair, but real friends just the same.

However, the writers hadn’t been satisfied with mere friendship. The television audience’s passionate response to Dunc and Roman had been uncharted territory for _Westerosi_ , catapulting the teen drama into the entertainment news cycles and online gossip sites. Brienne and Jaime’s chemistry as actors was way beyond anything that had ever been seen in the hallowed halls of Westerosi High. So the writers did what any self-respecting television writers would have done -- they milked the Dunc/ Roman relationship for all that it was worth.

At first, the writers had channeled the powerful chemistry into an unrequited crush full of unresolved tension. Awkward, geeky Dunc couldn’t help but pine after beautiful, popular Roman, no matter his dickishness and tendency towards crushing insults.

Brienne had thought the whole storyline slightly humiliating; but at the same time, she hoped Dunc’s crush would stay unrequited. Brienne was good at playing the pathetic, crushed-out school girl, longing after someone she couldn’t have. And honestly, it didn’t make sense for Roman to return Dunc’s feelings. Throughout its many years and incarnations, _Westerosi_ had prided itself on being a realistic portrayal of teens; and a Dunc/Roman romantic pairing was anything but realistic (as Jaime frequently and vehemently pointed out).

Yet, in the end, it was the chemistry that did it. Brienne’s stupid, brilliant chemistry with Jaime Lannister. She couldn’t explain it, tried her best not to think about it really, but the two of them came alive in their scenes with each other. The writers called it electric -- one guest director even pulling Brienne aside to tell her how lucky she was to have found chemistry like that on her first acting job.

“It’s such an elusive thing,” the director had insisted, giving her his unsolicited, professional opinion. “You can’t fake it. It’s either there or it isn’t. And holy shit is it there with the two of you.”

Brienne had smiled and nodded and swallowed down a little bit of throw-up at the thought. Because all things being equal, in Brienne’s unsolicited, professional opinion, Jaime Lannister was the fucking worst.

In the beginning, Jaime had just been indifferent to her. He was older, after all. Five years older. And he was gorgeous, looking more like a model than the sixteen year old he was supposed to be portraying. And then there was the disconcerting fact that he was beyond obscenely rich. Yes, Jaime Lannister was one of THE Lannisters of Lannisport and heir to the vast Lannister fortune. Unlike his co-stars, Jaime didn’t need the whole acting gig at all, his place in the family business completely secure.

Ironically, the fact that Jaime didn’t need to act was the very thing that insured his success in the field. People were fascinated by the idea of one of Westeros’ elite acting in a televised teen drama. It was enough to shoot _Westerosi’s_ popularity through the godsdamn roof, as well as to garner Jaime Lannister a huge public following. And so, without much effort or experience, Jaime became a “star.”

It was unfair, but that was the nature of a business founded on physical beauty, name recognition, and old-fashioned nepotism. And with no real currency in any of those categories, Brienne couldn’t hope to compete. She didn’t really want to, actually. Yes, it was annoying in the early days, when Jaime couldn’t remember her name or when he looked right through her, even though she was an inch taller than he was. However, Brienne didn’t take it all that personally. Jaime Lannister only had eyes for Jaime Lannister. She didn’t much like the jackass anyway -- so no real loss.

However, when they started having more and more scenes together, Jaime’s indifference had shifted to indignation. It was obvious that he didn’t like the new arc that the writers were giving his character. At almost twenty, Jaime didn’t want to be linked with fifteen-year-old Brienne, even in the capacity of friends. It was beneath him. He wanted to have flashy storylines like Oberyn’s character Doran had -- a new, hot girl in every episode. Instead, because of the stupid chemistry, most of Roman’s storylines revolved around his friendship with Dunc; and Jaime resented Brienne for it. And he took this resentment out on her. Frequently.

Much like his character, Jaime Lannister had a sharp tongue, little patience, and a quick temper. Brienne was forever doing things that Jaime found odd and annoying. And so Jaime took to constantly insulting Brienne: disparaging her for her height, her inexperience, her gracelessness, her looks, her dour nature, her tendency to blush when she was uncomfortable -- the list was endless. It was almost as if he had his own personal vendetta to make her quit.

However, although she was young and inexperienced and, OK, maybe just a little bit odd and overly serious, Brienne was stubborn as all hell; and she refused to give Jaime fucking Lannister the satisfaction.

But then Jaime had started seriously dating Cersei Baratheon, the actress who played Roman’s twin sister Raina Webber -- and that was when the infamous Lannister claws had really come out. For some reason Brienne couldn’t fathom, Cersei despised her. And with Cersei whispering in his ear, Jaime had gone from pompous ass to outright asshole, often berating Brienne to the point of tears (although the tears only came later in her dressing room. Brienne wouldn’t allow herself to break in front of the smug son of a bitch). That’s when the on-set arguments between Jaime and Brienne had really become legendary. Indeed, their relationship became the running joke of _Westerosi_ \-- everyone completely perplexed over how two people could be so amazing on screen and so hateful towards each other when the cameras stopped rolling.

The tension became so volatile that the producers had sat Brienne down for a serious talk. Words such as “professionalism” and “high road” and “maturity” had been thrown around. And Brienne came away from that meeting knowing damn well that she would have to be the one to grin and bear it. Jaime Lannister was too big of an asset for the producers to risk alienating.

Thus resigned to her lot, Brienne tried to avoid Jaime as much as humanly possible -- only seeing him for read-throughs, rehearsals, and filming. Unfortunately, with Dunc and Roman being _Westerosi’s_ cash cow, Jaime and Brienne spent almost more time together than apart, and it was all Brienne could do not to murder her co-star in cold blood.

Things had gone on like that for years, with Dunc and Roman becoming closer and closer, and Brienne and Jaime becoming more and more estranged. Occasionally there was a brief respite. Roman would date some pretty, popular girl, and Brienne would feel an overwhelming sense of relief for a few short episodes. And then there was that one, glorious, three-episode arc when Dunc considered a relationship with her nerdy friend Edric, played wonderfully by Sam Tarly. However, much to both Jaime and Brienne’s dismay, each minor infatuation would run its course, and then Dunc would be back to pining after the unattainable Roman, and Jaime would be back to making Brienne’s life a living hell.

So when the fateful script finally came, Brienne hadn’t been surprised at all. It had been a long time coming. However, even that knowledge hadn’t been enough to prevent the immediate, lurching nausea that had overtaken her when she had first read the stage directions describing in vivid detail the kiss between Dunc and Roman.

A kiss.

A motherfucking kiss.

She, Brienne Tarth, was going to have to kiss Jaime Lannister. And she didn’t know how she was going to do it.

**~~~~~~**

_Ugh._

Distantly, as if through a haze, Brienne felt Jaime’s mouth suck wetly on her bottom lip. Startled, she willed herself not to spring back. Instead, she fought against the panic that was currently knotting her intestines together and tightened her grip on Jaime’s shoulders, holding on for dear life.

Although she was coming up on seventeen, aside from the sweet, fumbling kiss she had shared with Sam Tarly during their one, romantic scene together, Brienne had no real experience with the mechanics of kissing. She had no idea what to do with her mouth -- with her hands -- with her body. And they hadn’t rehearsed it, hadn’t rehearsed it all. Jaime didn’t want to. Which was fine by her and a bit of a relief, except for the fact that Brienne currently had no idea what she was doing or if she were doing it “right.” The only thing she could take comfort in was the fact that Jaime, judging by the amount of time he spent permanently attached to Cersei’s face, had a great deal of experience in the mechanics of kissing. Experience that Brienne was only too happy to yield to. Surely Jaime knew what he was doing -- right?

_Only … was it supposed to be this awkward and squicky and … wet?_

Before she could figure out how to respond to all the sucking, Jaime was running his warm tongue over the seam of her mouth, shocking Brienne so badly that her own mouth fell slack in response.

Jaime must have taken that as a sign of acquiescence because, before Brienne could wrap her mind around the fact that Jaime Lannister’s tongue was on her mouth, Jaime Lannister’s tongue was in her mouth, shoved past her teeth, as he pushed Brienne back against the bank of lockers and slid his right hand down the side of her body, pulling her into him possessively.

_Wait. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t the blocking._

Although they hadn’t rehearsed this bit, Brienne was relatively sure that Jaime was supposed to be pulling away at this point in the scene, not trying his damnedest to swallow the lower half of her face.

_Shit. What was he doing?_

Brienne’s mind raced, while she fought to keep up, trying not to let the confusion show in her expression. She didn’t want to ruin the shot. She desperately didn’t want to ruin the shot. The less she had to do this scene the better. So ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach, she willed herself to go with the blocking -- to just follow wherever Jaime led.

But then suddenly, Jaime heaved himself up and smashed his body heavily on top of Brienne, groaning so dramatically, she felt the reverberation deep in her chest.

_Gods! What was going on?_

She felt the confusion lurch up from her stomach and was unable to prevent herself from emitting a faint squeaking noise.

“Just go with it, baby,” Jaime groaned roughly, pulling his face back and nuzzling against her ear, only to lick a slick path down her throat. “Fuck knows you’re not used to this much action,” he growled, burying his face in her neck, “but I’ll make it good.”

The anger came in a sudden, blinding flash. _Mother, Maiden, and Crone! The asshole was messing with her!_

Brienne felt her blood surge in her veins. “Get off me!” she cried, shoving Jaime hard against the lockers, her face red and her heart beating out of control.

She heard the resounding thwack as Jaime’s head made contact with the hard metal, but even that did nothing to assuage her fury. Squeezing her eyes tightly closed, Brienne willed the rising humiliation back down into her gut, as she fought to catch her breath and comprehend what had just happened.

From his position on the floor, Jaime massaged the back of his head and shot her a self-satisfied smirk. “What? Wasn’t that good?” he asked, all contrived innocence and concern. He gestured between the two of them. “I felt like we were really connecting there, Tarth.”

Tears sprang to Brienne’s eyes, and she furiously blinked them back. “You fucking ass…”

“All right, all right,” the director broke in hurriedly, advancing from behind the camera and holding out his arms to preempt any escalation. He turned to Jaime in exasperation. “Jaime, what the hell? That was way too aggressive. It’s supposed to be a tender, questioning kiss. Roman’s not sure of the whole thing. It’s his best friend, for gods’ sake, and he doesn’t want to mess things up.”

Jaime flashed the director a cold, barely tolerant smile, glancing at Brienne out of the corner of his eye as he stood. “Sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.” He raked his eyes over Brienne’s red and sweaty form which was still sprawled ungracefully against the lockers. “Tarth just gets me so worked up, you know? I just can’t help myself.”

“Fuck you, Lannister!” Brienne cried, jumping to her feet and straightening to her full height. She gestured to him angrily. “Come over here and say that to my face. I’ll beat that smug look off of you, you absolu…”

“Brienne,” the director said firmly, grabbing her by the elbow and deftly propelling her over to an empty corner of the set. “Take five everyone,” he called back over his shoulder to the crew. And then, still holding on to Brienne, he turned and leveled an angry glare at Jaime. “Lannister, take some time to read over the script. I don’t want any improvisations next time we roll. Understand?”

“You’re the boss,” Jaime shrugged good naturedly and sauntered off to the craft tables where Aiden Saleth who played Roman’s friend, Kevan Bowman, was currently eating his way through a stack of donuts.

“He has no right! No right!” Brienne cried, blinking back tears.“How dare he treat me like this! How dare he! It’s all just a big joke to him!”

Gods, she felt so stupid and pathetic. Of course the whole thing was a big joke to him. Jaime didn’t want to kiss her -- didn’t think it was realistic to have Roman kiss Dunc. He had fought against it in the read-throughs, fought against it in rehearsals when he had refused to even run through the blocking. And now he was making his protest known to the entire set by treating the whole kiss as a massive fucking joke -- treating Brienne like she was a massive fucking joke. The whole thing was so infuriating and humiliating, and she just wanted to cry. Just break down and cry. Which she wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t godsdamn do because then Jaime would win. And she wouldn’t let him win. She wouldn’t!

“Brienne,” the director sighed, cutting into her tirade. And then, when she wouldn’t look at him, “Brienne.” He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, withdrawing it when she flinched back, still flushed with adrenaline and anger. “Look, Brienne,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “Lannister’s an ass. Everyone on this set knows that.” He looked over to where Jaime was stuffing a powdered donut into his mouth, laughing at something Aiden was saying. “Pretty boys like him are a dime a dozen in this industry. Seriously... but, Brienne,” the director waited until she made begrudging eye contact, the skin around her eyes tight with the effort of holding back tears. “For some strange reason the two of you are magic on screen.”

Brienne grimaced, opening her mouth to protest, but the director cut her off.

“You may not like it, but you are.” He shook his head, leveling his gaze at her. “Maybe it’s all the anger. Maybe it’s the fact that you two hate each other; but, whatever it is, it’s freaking dynamite when the cameras roll. So use him, Brienne. Block out all of his shit and use him to show the world how good you are. Use him to cement a career in this hellscape of an industry.” He heaved out a weary breath. “Take it from someone who has had to deal with his fair share of assholes and narcissists. It will be worth it. When you are established -- when you get to do the projects you want to do with the people you want to work with -- it will be worth it, Brienne. I promise you.”

Brienne closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, letting the director’s words sink in. Use him. Use Jaime. Even drowning in rage and humiliation, she kind of liked the sound of that. She certainly wasn’t going to change Jaime. And, despite his horrible behavior, he wasn’t going anywhere. The producers had made that crystal clear. So why not just use him? She rubbed her face tiredly. The director was right -- someday Brienne would have an acting career, and Jaime would just be a distasteful memory. Something she could look back on -- like a due she had been forced to pay. And really, what other option did she have? Well, she could always quit. However, then Jaime would win. He would win. And if there was one thing more abhorrent than kissing Jaime Lannister, it was letting Jaime Lannister win.

All right. She would do this. She would do this. Put her head down and do it -- even if it killed her.

Centering herself, Brienne nodded once. “Fine.”

“Good girl,” the director murmured, placated. “Now go get a touch-up on make-up, and we’ll try this scene again.”

Brienne nodded once more and turned to head over to the make-up chair.

She was half-way through her touch-up when Jaime and Aiden returned from the craft table.

From her vantage point behind the make-up woman, Brienne could just hear them. Aiden was teasing Jaime, saying something about Jaime’s over-eager performance during the kissing scene.

“All I know is that you must be a damn good actor, Lannister,” Brienne heard Aiden quip. “It really looked like you wanted in Tarth’s pants pretty fucking badly.”

“Christ, Aiden. It’s called acting for a reason,” Jaime snarked, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but that was totally above and beyond the blocking, dude. I mean usually you go on and on about how rough it is feigning feelings for her. But fuck, man, your first kissing scene, and you are all over her like a rash. Are you sure you’re not secretly into her?”

“Gross,” Jaime blew out a breath, shaking his head in disgust.

The make-up woman moved, and Jaime looked directly at Brienne, his green eyes narrowing and his smile cutting and sly. “The sacrifices we make for art, am I right?” He was talking to Aiden but looking directly at Brienne.

Aiden laughed, and Brienne bit her lip, marring her carefully applied, neutral lipstick. She could feel the blood rising up her chest to settle blotchily in her cheeks. Stupid, awful, condescending, asshole. As if she weren’t the one making the sacrifice. The supreme sacrifice. Jaime Lannister was a rash. A horrible rash. He was irritating and embarrassing and revolting and...

“Everything OK, hun?” the make-up lady asked, frowning as she powdered Brienne’s brow, which had once again broken out in a sweat.

“Everything’s fantastic, thank you,” Brienne gritted out. She shot Jaime a withering look and went to take her mark.

_Use him. Use him. Use him._

Brienne repeated the mantra quietly in her head, trying to calm her anger, as she slunk down against the bank of lockers, drawing up her knees and laying her head on them. Working on regulating her breath, she barely heard the AD call “action,” but soon enough Jaime was sliding down next to her.

“Dunc? Come on, Dunc? It’s not that bad. I promise you, it’s not.” Jaime’s voice was soft and earnest. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder.

“Go away,” Brienne called, her head still buried in her knees.

“Dunc, everyone knows Hyle Hunt’s a dick. No one cares what he thinks.”

Brienne lifted her tear-stained face. “I care.”

Jaime reached out a hand and let his thumb lightly trace the wet track of one of Brienne’s tears, causing Brienne to shudder involuntarily. “You shouldn’t.”

Brienne shook off Jaime’s hand. “That’s easy for you to say, Roman Webber. You’re popular and gorgeous, and all the girls like you.” Brienne let her voice go raw and rough. “I just thought…” she broke off. “I just thought that maybe this one time it would be different. Maybe this one time it wasn’t a joke. Maybe this one time someone really liked me -- wanted to be with me. But no -- I was just being stupid again, wasn’t I? God, I’m so stupid! I mean who would ever like me?” She gestured down to herself, her voice breaking. “Who would ever find this attractive? Stupid, awkward, massive, naive, dumb, giant of a…”

Jaime surged forward, his hands coming to cradle Brienne’s jaw and turn her face towards him. And then his lips were on hers again -- only this time they were careful -- slow and tentative. Almost soft.

 _“Use him. Use him. Use him,”_ her brain chanted, as she fought the instinct to push Jaime away.

The kiss continued, and soon, despite her caution, Brienne felt her insides start to lighten and swirl a bit, as Jaime gently explored her mouth. Slowly, slowly, Brienne let the bunched tightness in her shoulders and neck ease, feeling herself relax slightly into the kiss. Remembering the blocking, she moved her body towards him, her hands coming up to clutch the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

With a quiet sigh, Jaime released his grip on her face and slid one hand down to her shoulder and across her back, gently cradling her, his hand warm on the thin fabric of her oversized band t-shirt.

_Use him. Use him._

Surrendering to the blocking, Brienne responded to Jaime’s movement, angling her body closer towards him, then drawing back slightly to look into Jaime's eyes.

Jaime smiled bashfully, meeting her gaze; and for one, sweet, blissful moment, Brienne thought that they had it -- that they had the take. But then suddenly, Jaime’s smile turned feral, and he tightened his arm around her, dragging Brienne further up and into him until she was almost sitting in his lap. Ignoring the blocking, he kissed her again -- this time his mouth fierce and aggressive.

Startled, Brienne jerked back to try to break the kiss. However, before she could, Jaime snaked his tongue into her mouth once again, groaning in ecstasy like a hyperbolic porn star hopped up on energy drinks. “Oh, Dunc. Yeah, Dunc. Right there, baby!”

_Fucking smug bastard! He was doing it again!_

The calming mantra disappeared from Brienne’s head, replaced by a red hot fury. Tightening her grip in Jaime’s hair, she bit down. Hard.

“Shit!” Jaime cried, releasing Brienne and scrambling away from her. He brought his hand up to his mouth, gingerly touching his tongue. “Shit! She bit my tongue. She bit my godsdamned tongue!”

Brienne’s vision had narrowed to a pinprick of light, and her breath was coming hard and fast, but she would not let him win. Would not let the son of a bitch win.

Marshaling all the dignity she could muster, Brienne rose regally to her full height, scrunching up her face at the sour taste of Jaime’s blood. She straightened her spine, towering over Jaime’s prone form menacingly. “Oh dear,” she said, working to make her voice sweetly contrite. “Was that too much?” She gestured between the two of them. “I really thought we were connecting there.”

Turning her head, she spat onto the concrete floor, barely missing Jaime. “The sacrifices we make for art, Lannister. Am I right?” And then, without waiting for his answer, Brienne spun on her heel and walked away.

The director let her go, shaking his head in silent awe at her retreating back.


	2. I Can Feel Your Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime wakes up in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic continues to be a whole jumble of crazy, but just so you know -- sometimes I will be writing the "television scenes" from the actors' perspectives as they are are acting, and sometimes I will be writing the "television scenes" from the television characters' perspectives. Thought I'd try to make it as chaotic as possible to mirror my current mood, lol. ; )

**“I Can Feel Your Pain”**

**Manchester Orchestra**

**“'Cause I can feel your pain**   
**In my bones, in my bones”**

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

It was the sharp pain behind his eyes that woke him -- pulled him agonizingly onto the stinging razor’s edge between sleep and consciousness. He had been aware of movement and muffled sounds for some time now. At least, it seemed that way.

A day maybe?

Half of a day?

A few hours?

Time meant nothing to him in this thick, nebulous, in-between world. He knew he should probably open his eyes to see what the commotion was all about. However, try as he might, he couldn’t pull himself free from the sticky, viscous haze in which he currently seemed to be floating.

But then the pain started -- a sharp needling behind his eyes. It was as if someone had taken a burning hot drill bit and was slowly … ever so slowly… drilling through his brain and into his eye socket. Groaning, he fluttered his right eye open and immediately closed it again.

A flash of more pain.

His body convulsed, his stomach contracting impotently.

“Jaime,” a voice called, and he felt a warm press on his left hand -- a hand that seemed fat and tight, comically swollen. Not his hand at all. “Jaime?”

Damn, would the voice just shut up already. It was painful enough in his brain without the noise.

There was a loud shuffling beside his bed.

Fuck, just let him recover from the light first-- please.

“Jaime? Brother? Are you awake?”

He tried shrugging his body to make the sound go away, turning his face to the opposite side. However with the shifting of his head, the pain started throbbing, building behind his eyes, threatening to split his head wide open. He reluctantly cracked his eyelids, bracing for the light. Maybe by opening his eyes, he could release some of this pressure from behind his eye sockets -- release it from his aching head and into the room with the noise.

The room.

His eyes slowly adjusted, focusing on his surroundings. A table that seemed to be sprouting something green. _OK._ White walls -- maybe yellow? An old-school television with some fuzzy show playing, the volume so low Jaime couldn’t make it out. A strange beeping that was pounding, pounding against the bones of his skull, reverberating against his eye sockets, causing his jaw to tighten and the pain to intensify.

_Oh shit._

A hospital room.

He was in a hospital room.

With tremendous effort, Jaime turned his head back to the right and slowly dropped it down to meet the concerned, lopsided gaze of his brother.

“Jaime!” Tyrion half-smiled, his mismatched eyes surprisingly glassy. “You overly-dramatic asshole. It’s about damn time you woke up.”

The voice hurt. It literally hurt his brain to have to listen and to focus. Jaime let out a breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back into unconsciousness; but the pain refused to let him.

“Here,” Tyrion said, coming closer to the bed. “Drink this.” A cup was pressed to Jaime’s lips. He tasted cold and struggled to swallow, grimacing as the pounding in his head echoed relentlessly.

“Good, good,” Tyrion praised, pulling the cup back when the water started dribbling down Jaime’s chin, soaking the front of his hospital gown.

Gods, he was so tired. So, so tired. But the pain wouldn’t let up. He felt fat tears build in the corner of his eyes and spill down his face. But even that didn’t release any of the pressure in his skull.

He made a choked, inhuman sound, and Tyrion stepped back to make way for the white clad figure who took one look at Jaime and pressed some kind of button.

Instantly, the pain in Jaime’s head faded, as a wave of warmth crashed over him. He closed his eyes and fell back into oblivion.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

They told him he had been in an accident.

A bad one.

Apparently he had been driving back from an audition in the city, when another driver had veered into his lane and had hit him head-on. The other driver had died on impact, and Jaime had been life-flighted to the nearest hospital, his body broken and twisted like the wreck of his car.

He had undergone emergency surgery in a desperate attempt to repair bone, mend lacerations, and stop internal bleeding. It had been touch-and-go for a while. Extremely touch-and-go. After the surgeries, the doctors had put him in a medically induced coma for a few days to give his body time to recover -- to deal with the shock.

Jaime remembered nothing of this.

He didn’t remember the audition. He didn’t remember the car ride. He didn’t remember the crash. Hell, he didn’t even remember what it felt like to not be in pain. Did he ever not have this relentless pounding in his head? Was his hand ever not consumed by wildfire? Was he ever not nauseous -- not fragile to the point of tears?

Christ, who the hells was he before the pain?

Who the hells was he before?

**~~~~~~**

**Fifteen Years Earlier:**

Jaime ran a distracted hand through his hair, mussing it up into artful peaks.

The hair and make-up woman clucked at him impatiently but, recognizing the appeal of a slightly bed-headed Jaime Lannister, she left it disheveled. Instead, she adjusted the shoulders of his leather jacket and smoothed out his t-shirt, brushing her hand over the hard muscles of his chest.

Jaime looked down at her, his green eyes narrowing knowingly, and she blushed in response.

She was thirty-seven years old and had worked on the _Westerosi_ set for the last eleven years, and the new kid was making her blush. Mother help her --- it was just that he was so godsdamn handsome. And the kid knew it too. It was written all over his way-too-pretty face -- in his bold gaze, his cocky smile, the conscious way he bit his lip. Oh yes, this kid was definitely going to be doing some damage. On a set full of hormonal teenagers, it was inevitable. In fact, judging by the fawning looks his current scene partner was shooting at him, the kid was well on his way to breaking hearts already.

His touch-up completed, Jaime stepped away from the make-up table and the blushing make-up lady and sauntered over to his mark. Today was his first day of filming. Today was the day that Westerosi High was finally going to meet the Webber twins.

Jaime couldn’t help but congratulate himself. He had fought long and hard to get here, going behind his father’s back to secure an agent -- sneaking off to auditions when he was supposed to be starting a business major at university. But he had done it -- held fast against his father’s threats and protests. Oh all right, he had been forced to begrudgingly promise the old man that, if acting didn’t work out within the first year, he would go back to school and learn the family business. But, if Jaime had anything to say about it, acting was going to work out. And his role as Roman Webber on the long-running, teen drama _Westerosi_ was only the first step on his trajectory towards success.

Feeling the buzz of excitement low in his chest, Jaime smiled rakishly at the girl playing ASB president Melara Hetherspoon -- _shit, what was her name again? Jillian? Gillian?_ \-- and she blushed and smiled back. She actually wasn’t half bad. A little bright eyed and peppy for his taste, but not bad at all. However, before Jaime could turn on the charm, the actress playing his twin sister glided over to her mark.

Shit. He sure as all seven hells remembered her name: Cersei. Cersei Baratheon. He remembered every damn thing about her.

Cersei Baratheon was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl Jaime had ever laid eyes on. Petyr Baelish, the show’s creator, had told Jaime that they had searched high and low over all of Westeros to find an actress who looked similar enough to Jaime to play Roman’s twin sister Raina. And they had succeeded. Hells, they had succeeded in spades.

Cersei was -- well, she was incredibly hot. Tall and slender, with a banging body and a better than average rack. Her skin was golden, her long hair golden, and her cat-like, green eyes held a look somewhere in-between “Fuck me” and “Fuck off.”

Jaime had fallen for her the minute they had screen-tested together. She had barely given him the time of day back then, and that fact alone had sent his attraction to her off the charts. Jaime Lannister was used to girls throwing themselves at him. However, Cersei remained cool, stand-offish, as if Jaime’s beauty was no big deal at all. Actually, in retrospect, Jaime realized that Cersei’s coolness towards him was probably a good thing in the end. There was no way either of them would have been hired to play siblings if it seemed like they wanted to rip each other’s clothes off. _Westerosi_ was a family show, for gods’ sake. So Jaime would have to try to keep it in his pants whenever the camera was rolling. However off screen, all bets were off.

“Jaime,” Cersei nodded, as she came forward and took her mark next to him. “Gilly.”

 _Gilly! That was her name. Good thing he hadn’t called her Jill._ Jaime grinned at Cersei and gave her an appraising nod, which she patently ignored.

The AD called for quiet on the set. The clapboard sounded the mark.

“Action.”

“And that over there is the gym,” Gilly gestured to two sets of double doors, her smile instantly manic in its positivity. “I’m sure you will be spending a lot of time there, Roman. Principal Luwin says that you are a total superstar on the court.”

“Ah, I see my reputation precedes me,” Jaime quipped, falling into Roman’s lazy drawl and giving Gilly a saucy wink.

Cersei rolled her eyes, and Gilly giggled. “Don’t encourage him,” Cersei deadpanned. “His head’s far too big already.”

Gilly led them down the deserted hall, lined on both sides with banks of lockers painted bright blue. “We call this the Great Hall since the seniors all have their lockers…”

All of a sudden, a classroom door burst open and an incredibly tall, incredibly long-limbed, blond girl came rushing out, careening into Cersei in her haste and knocking her over onto the floor.

“Christ! Watch it!” Cersei spat, as Jaime, once over his initial shock at the force of the collision, gallantly came to her rescue, helping her back on to her feet.

“Sorry. So sorry,” the tall girl apologized, reaching out a large hand to try to help.

However, Jaime batted her hand away and stepped in front of Cersei, in a protective gesture.

“Oh, Dunc,” Gilly said, breaking the awkward silence and trying to smooth things over. “Meet Roman and Raina Webber. They just transferred in from Westland High.” She gestured up at the tall girl. “This is Dunc Duncan.”

“H.. hello,” the girl who played Dunc stuttered, her cheeks a mottled red.

Jaime let his gaze roam upward. And upward. And upward. _Seven hells, the girl was fucking massive!_ He had thought her tall at the read-through, but up close she was ridiculous.

The tall girl turned to Cersei, giving her a sheepish smile. “Sorry for running into you. Um… I was just called down to the office, and I’m never called down to the office.” She bit her lip nervously. “I'm a bit worried actually. Hope I’m not in trouble.”

Cersei’s mouth twisted into a sour smirk, as she assessed the girl. _If looks could kill, this giant of an actress would be laid out on the floor. Cersei had Raina’s bitch face absolutely perfected._

With a flick of her long hair, Cersei turned to Jaime, ignoring the poor girl’s bumbling apology. “Gods, the girl’s tall enough to be a Wildling, Roman.”

Jaime laughed, watching as the girl who played Dunc’s face became even more red. “I don’t know,” he mused thoughtfully. “Are you sure she’s even a girl?” He looked directly at the tall girl’s chest, blatantly letting his eyes roam over her massive frame. “I’d say the evidence so far is inconclusive.”

Cersei laughed, and Gilly looked between them uncomfortably, her cheery smile faltering.

“Uh … I should … I should go,” the tall girl said, adjusting the straps on her bright blue backpack nervously.

“Yes, please. Don’t let us keep you,” Cersei said with a sharp smile. She turned back to Jaime and cocked her head. “Perhaps she’s one of your basketball teammates, Ro. I think she’s taller than you are.”

The tall girl turned a deeper red.

_Damn, she could blush on cue! That took some talent._

“No… I’m not. I mean, I am taller, but I don’t ...” she tried to explain. “My brother. He’s the one who plays basketball, not me.”

Jaime smiled. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. He quirked an eyebrow suggestively. “Although, if we did share a locker room, we could settle the whole girl or boy question once and for all.”

The girl blinked rapidly, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “I have to…” she said. And then without finishing her sentence, she barreled down the hall and out of the frame.

Cersei turned to Jaime, a pleased smile lighting her features. “Lord, Roman. You really are awful, you know.”

“Yes. But you still love me,” Jaime replied cheekily, bumping his hip against hers.

“Gods help me, I do,” Cersei agreed with a knowing smile. And Jaime had to restrain himself from crossing the distance between them and kissing her senseless.

Gilly turned and gaped at them. “Um …right. If you will just… um follow me, I’ll show you the cafeteria.”

Jaime smiled at Cersei and extended his arm. “Milady.”

Giving him a sly smile, Cersei wrapped her hand possessively around his elbow, and the two of them set off down the Great Hall after Gilly’s retreating form.

“Cut!” the director cried.

Jaime and Cersei came to a halt, and Cersei quickly unwound her hand from Jaime’s arm, much to Jaime’s chagrin.

“Good, good, everyone,” the director said distractedly, coming around from behind the camera and patting Gilly on the shoulder. He nodded at Jaime and Cersei. “Nicely done, you two. Take five, and we will roll again with Camera Two.” He turned to address the crew behind him. “We need better lighting over here, folks.”

Jaime turned to Cersei, stepping into her space, his smirk firmly in place. “That was good. First rate bitchiness. Have you had lots of practice?”

Cersei gave him a calculating smile that shot straight to his groin. “You weren’t so bad yourself, Jaime Lannister. It’s like you were born to play an asshole. I could almost believe you weren’t even acting.”

“You were both aces,” Gilly said happily, choosing to ignore the heated subtext. “For a second, I thought poor Brienne there was going to cry for real.”

“Who?” Cersei said, not turning her eyes from Jaime.

Jaime swallowed under her gaze. _Gods she was all kinds of gorgeous._ He was going to have to try to get-in with the writers -- see if he could massage a few storylines his way. _Was an incest arc too taboo for a prime time, teen drama?_

“Brienne. Brienne Tarth,” Gilly explained patiently. “The girl who plays Dunc.” She pointed over to where Brienne was receiving notes from the AD, and Jaime reluctantly broke eye-contact with Cersei. He turned to where Brienne stood. _Good god the girl was stupidly huge. Did she have some kind of genetic condition?_

“Jaime,” Cersei broke in, ignoring Gilly completely. “Margaery and I were thinking of having a little get together this afternoon in my dressing room. Would you perhaps want to come?”

Jaime smiled and ran a hand through his hair, noticing how Cersei’s eyes darkened at the movement. _Oh, she may try to hide it, but the girl was not immune to his looks. Not at all immune._ Reveling in the power of his pretty face, Jaime ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip and reached a tanned hand up to scratch his jaw. “Honestly, Cers, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” he said lowly.

“Good,” Cersei nodded.

Infinitely secure in the power of her own beauty, Cersei stood on tiptoe and reached her hand out to brush a wayward strand of Jaime’s hair back into place, her gaze sharp. “There,” she breathed, the hot puff of air warming Jaime’s lips. “Perfect.”

And in that moment, Jaime knew that he was.

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

He had noticed.

Yes, he was drugged to all hells and barely lucid, but he had noticed how people looked at him -- the shock on their faces, which they tried to hide with over-stretched smiles and flashes of too many teeth.

It must be bad. It must be fucking bad if even Tyrion winced when Jaime turned his face towards him.

Jaime’s agent hadn’t been able to stomach it for more than a minute or two. Varys had breezed in, all good cheer and positivity, hands full of magazines and chocolates and flowers, only to leave literally minutes later when the strain of trying to keep his smile in the face of Jaime’s condition proved to be too much.

Jaime had purposefully not looked at himself. His hospital room, although the best that Lannister money could procure, did not contain a mirror; and Jaime avoided looking in the mirror every time the nurse helped him to the bathroom to relieve himself. Oh, Jaime had been incredibly happy when the catheter had finally been removed. Still, it was humiliating enough to have the nurse there with him when he emptied his bladder. He didn’t think he could take the further indignity of crying in front of her when he saw his face.

However, although he didn’t look forward to seeing it, Jaime was a pragmatist at heart. He knew -- he knew very well -- that he was going to have to survey the damage eventually.

Thus, when Jaime was steady enough on his good leg that the nurse had deposited him on the toilet and left him to his own devices, he decided that it was time.

Hauling himself up off of the toilet and onto his crutch (yet another indignity that was now part of his life), he maneuvered slowly towards the requisite, foggy mirror which hung over the requisite, white, hospital sink.

He blinked. Or tried to blink. His eyelids were too swollen to register the movement.

_Gods._

The image in the mirror became blurry -- distorted, and Jaime shook his head to clear it, wincing as the painful pressure rebounded in his skull.

_Was that him?_

Stunned, Jaime brought his shaky left hand up to touch his cheek, the flesh hot and tight under his fingertips.

They warned him that his face had taken the brunt of the impact, when his head had slammed first against the driver’s side airbag and then against the door frame. The evidence of the impact looked to be indelibly imprinted -- his face black and blue and puffy with abrasions, like a slab of tenderized meat. His eyes were swollen almost shut, which explained why his head currently hurt worse than a son of a bitch. His nose, once called “the crowning glory of his face” by a besotted interviewer, now looked comically big. They had reset it, a single strip of white adhesive tape marking its bridge, bisecting the blackish-purple bruises.

_Fuck._

Jaime inhaled, his chest contracting painfully -- a visceral reminder that the damage from the accident wasn’t relegated to his face.

_Well, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb._

Licking his dry, cracked lips, Jaime brought his good hand to his hospital gown, releasing the tie and letting the gown fall down his good arm and off the left half of his body. He looked back into the mirror. A deep purple bruise criss-crossed his chest, a ghostly reminder of the seat belt that, they told him, had saved his life. More of the stark white adhesive tape bound his chest where he had broken two ribs. Slowly, he let the fingers of his left hand trace the dark purple line across his chest, wincing at the pain that instantly shot through him and set his head pounding again.

Jaime took another deep, painful breath and looked down at his dangling right leg which was wrapped tightly in bandages and a removable brace. Apparently, when the car had slammed into him, it had snapped a bone in his leg. The doctors had repaired it in surgery, screwing a steel rod to the damaged bone. They said that it looked bad, but that, all things considered, it was relatively minor. It would heal, and Jaime’s mobility wouldn’t be permanently compromised. Unfortunately, they weren’t so sure about his hand.

Jaime’s right hand had been completely crushed in the impact. The doctors had done their best to piece the bones together with pins and plates and sew up the remaining flesh in a Frankensteinish Hail Mary, but it didn’t look good. Jaime stared at it in his reflection, grimacing at the rust-colored stains where blood and fluid had seeped through his bandages and sling, at the exposed flesh -- a sickly yellowish white.

Suddenly, his stomach churned -- the tepid rice pudding from the hospital breakfast working its way up and spilling out of his mouth and into the sink.

_Gods!_

Jaime heaved again, watery tears leaking out of the corner of his swollen eyes, as he fought to catch his breath in between his gagging -- his broken ribs protesting painfully.

Hearing his distress, the nurse came running back in -- a steady hand on his bare back where the hospital gown had fallen away, another arm around his waist supporting his weight. She held onto him as he heaved over and over and over again into the sink.

Jaime was a mess of tears and snot and vomit, when he finally lifted his head from the basin. However, the nurse only tsked at him mildly for overexerting himself, before she wiped his face and re-tied his gown. For once, Jaime felt no embarrassment, teetering there on one leg, ass-out and vomit stained in the hospital bathroom. He was too scared to be embarrassed. Too scared at what he had lost. Instead, he quietly let her shepherd him back to bed, quietly let her change his gown, quietly let her bring him water to rinse out his sour mouth.

When he was changed and had dutifully downed the cup of water the nurse had brought him, Jaime swallowed what was left of his pride and asked for a sedative. Pleaded, really.

All he wanted to do was sleep. To sleep and to sleep and to never wake up.

After a cursory check of his chart, the nurse nodded sympathetically and pushed something into his IV line.

Jaime felt an almost instant warmth. Giving in to it, he closed his swollen eyes and tried to forget.

Tried to forget the horror show that his face had become.

Tried to forget the horror show that his body had become.

Tried to forget the horror show that his life had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and for all of the kind kudos and comments. I am truly grateful.


	3. Why Why Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne hears the news.

**“Why Why Why”**

**The Airborne Toxic Event**

**“Was a summer’s day when you first walked away**   
**At the time I wasn’t feeling so bad.**   
**Gave me shit while I looked away**   
**Just like every big conversation that we ever had.**   
**And you know how a thing like that can be**   
**Such a terrible shame,**   
**‘Cause it makes you feel mean.**   
**Your eyes were so very green”**

**~~~~~~**

**Six Days Earlier:**

Brienne carded a hand through the fine hair that curled over the nape of Robb’s neck, shifting the rusty strands between her fingertips to feel their texture. It was dark in the room, but a soft glow from the weak light in the corner played over his features.

_Gods, he looked so fragile up close, his face solemnly serious, his careful, grown-up defenses lying shattered on the floor around him._

She leaned forward slightly, bringing her forehead down to rest on his.

With her movement, Robb inhaled. And Brienne watched as his blue eyes widened, the crinkles at the corners of his eyelids tensing minutely.

_Seven hells, how did he manage to look both incredibly brave and impossibly young?_

Not daring to move, Brienne breathed in, her inhalation taking the hot exhalation of his lungs deep into her chest to where it melded with her own breath.

He was so, so close. Just the smallest movement would send his mouth pushing into hers.

“My lady ...” Robb croaked, his voice husky and deep.

It was a tone she had not heard him use before -- a tone that caused Brienne to shiver involuntarily and to press her forehead more closely to his.

In response to her movement, his arms immediately wound up around her shoulders, bracing her body against him. He opened his mouth again ...

“Don’t die,” Brienne cut him off, her own voice hoarse and shaky. “Don’t fucking die.”

She watched as Robb’s eyes turned dark. This close, she could see the fight raging inside of him. The battle between emotion and propriety that seemed to be always a part of him. She felt her heart quicken in response.

Suddenly, Robb let out a strangled groan, his hands falling from her shoulders to tangle in her leather jerkin, pulling her against him almost violently.

Brienne could feel the tension in his body, the tension in the air between them -- thin and brittle -- pulled so tightly that the smallest movement would cause it to splinter and crack.

“I … Arianne, I have to …” Rob stuttered, his voice stretched taut. “Before I leave, I must tell you…”

“No,” Brienne breathed out, wrenching her head back and trying to free herself from Robb’s embrace. She felt a small bubble of panic rise in her throat and swallowed it down. “Don’t, Ser. Please.” She leaned back, but he held on to her jerkin -- trying to shepherd her further into his body, his fingers grasping, sliding against her breast in the struggle to keep her close.

“Arianne,” he pleaded, his face heated and desperate. “My lady…”

“Stop!” Brienne commanded, bringing her hands up to grasp his wrists in a tight vise until his movements ceased. “This can’t be...” She fought to control her voice, to strip it of its desperation.

“Survive,” she ordered harshly -- too harshly and watched his face startle at her vehemence. It wasn’t that long ago that he was under her command, and his body responded accordingly, his agitation cooling instantly with her directive.

She nodded once -- a spare, short movement. “Survive, Ser. And then we will talk.”

Still clasping her jerkin in his tight fists, Robb stared at her face for a long moment. He opened his mouth but then shook his head, his eyes glassy. “As my lady commands,” he finally rasped out.

Gently Brienne untangled his fingers from her bunched clothing, letting his hands fall softly to his sides. “I am no lady, as you well know,” she admonished quietly. “And if you followed any of my commands, Ser, you would have never volunteered to find the girl in the first place. How you think this can be anything but a suicide mission, I don’t …”

“I swore an oath,” Robb interrupted quietly, a resigned half-smile twisting his handsome face. He was trying his damnedest to school his features into something less open -- less exposed. Something more befitting of a knight of his station. “My lady, you know as well as I do what it is to be bound by an oath.”

“I do,” Brienne acknowledged, pressing her lips together tightly, the sheen in her own eyes betraying her composure. “And right now that knowledge is the only thing keeping me from drawing my sword and preventing you from leaving.” Her hand fell to her sword hilt, the cool metal grounding her, reminding her of her duty. She forced herself to look directly into his face -- his dear, brave face that looked so determined and so lost.

“Go. Please, Ser Brynden.” Her voice cracked, and she worked to steady it. “Go. Before I change my mind and make you stay.”

He gave her a pained quirk of his lips, more of a grimace than a smile, and nodded once. “I will see you when I return, my lady.”

“Yes,” she said. “Make sure you do.” She breathed out, the space between them vibrating painfully. “Make sure you do return.”

For a moment she thought Robb would breach the distance between them. Take her into his arms and refuse to go, honor and oaths be damned. However, with a final glance so full of longing Brienne felt it reverberate against her very skin, he turned quickly and left.

The door to the outside corridor slammed shut, echoing into the tension-filled room. Brienne winced at the noise. Silently, she waited a long minute, counting the beats in her head, before letting out a choked sob and sliding down to her knees.

 _ **“Cut!”**_ the director called, coming out from his seat behind the cameras.

Brienne sniffed, wiping her eyes. She shifted over until she was sitting on the floor, sparing her poor knees the weight of her body. Her left knee was still swollen and black from two days ago when the stunt coordinator had gotten a bit too aggressive in rehearsal and had whacked her with his practice sword.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the director said, walking out onto the set, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “That was good, Brienne. Really good. You too, Stark,” he turned to include Robb, who had wandered back onto the set from the outside corridor. “You know I wasn’t sure if this whole thing was going to work.” He gestured between the two of them. “But you guys are good together.” He looked at them bemusedly and then shook his head at the flurry of activity happening around them. “All right. Take ten while we reset the cameras, and then we’ll roll this scene again.”

Brienne nodded, still swiping at her eyes which hadn’t completely stopped leaking. It was slightly embarrassing, but Brienne was used to it by now. She had never been one of those actors who could easily shut off emotions when the director yelled cut.

Robb wandered into her eyeline, and she gave him a watery smirk, sitting up a bit and straightening out her costume that was still askew from his manhandling. “Gods, Stark. It’s a wonder you didn’t tear this damn thing off me. Who knew wee Brynden Tully had it in him, eh?” she teased, watching the blood infuse his face.

Robb’s character, Brynden Tully, had started the show as a young, bright-eyed, innocent who wrestled with the brutality and violence of a knight’s life and was often sick at the sight of bloodshed. It was thanks largely to Robb’s hard work; to his ruddy, leading-man looks; and to his chemistry with Brienne, that his character had risen through the ranks and was now a major player in _The Knights of the Seven Kingdoms'_ universe -- a most fearsome adversary to all who challenged him. However, at the current moment, Robb was looking quite a bit less than fearsome, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment.

“Shit, Bri. I so didn’t mean for that to happen.” He walked over to her, offering her a hand to help her up off of the floor, his expression sheepish.

She clasped his hand and, with a groan, rose to her feet, her bruised knee protesting violently.

“I honestly didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was too late,” Robb continued. He gestured to her chest area, his face worriedly contrite. “I wasn’t trying to cop a feel, I swear.”

Brienne laughed, her own cheeks tinged slightly pink. “Lucky for you, there’s not much there to feel.” And then when Robb only became more red and agitated, “Seriously. No worries, Stark. We were both into the scene. It happens.”

Robb blushed more, the patchy splotches making him look much younger than his 23 years. He scratched the side of his neck nervously. “Yeah. I guess we were pretty well into it.”

Suddenly he grinned shyly, shaking his head in acceptance. “Honestly, Tarth, you were making me feel all kinds of things with those bloody dangerous eyes of yours.”

“Whatever,” Brienne argued, brushing off the compliment. “What about that raspy voice of yours? And were those actual tears in your eyes?” She smiled good-naturedly and nodded to the cameras. “Damn, man. You do realize you’re going to have the entire female population of Westeros eating out of your hand when that episode airs?”

“Hah! If only,” Robb laughed. “You know as well as I do that all the girls are so far up Gendry’s ass I haven’t any hope. And those girls who aren’t fans of Gendry and all his pretty muscles are fans of you and all your pretty muscles.” He gave her a self-deprecating smirk. “It’s quite discouraging for the rest of us, really.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, as Robb knocked against her side fondly. “Although I did manage to get at least a minimal response from the ever stoic Ice Queen that last take,” he continued, his voice low and teasing. “So I must have been doing something right.”

“Just because I haven’t succumbed to your many, many charms, Robb Stark, doesn’t mean I’m an ice queen,” Brienne quipped primly. She reached out and returned the shove, watching as the cameras were rolled into place to re-set for the shot.

She looked to the craft service table and sighed quietly, scrubbing her face with her hand. Man, was she exhausted. This was her third fifteen-hour day in a row, and she wasn’t as young as her costar. She turned back to Robb, who was watching them reset for the scene, his face still bright red. Poor kid. He was so easily flustered, even after all of this time working together. There was only one thing to it, then. She’d have to tease the embarrassment out of him.

“Oy, Mr. Gropey!” she called, waving a hand in front of his face. “What say we go get a coffee before we have to do this all again? These long shoots fucking kill me every time.”

“Damn it, Brienne,” Robb let out a groan of embarrassed exasperation. “I apologized. Can’t we just let it go? Do we have to start with the nicknames yet again? You’ve only just stopped calling me Wee Robby Starky.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows and gave him a wink. “Oh, Mr. Gropey, three years working together and you still don’t know me at all, do you?” She gave him a wicked smile and gestured to the craft table. “Just try to behave yourself, kid, and keep your hands off of the sticky buns.”

**~~~~~~**

Brienne was just adding cream to her coffee when she caught the name Jaime Lannister in the clanging cacophony of the sound stage.

_Jaime Lannister?_

Not able to contain an involuntary grimace and an even more involuntary spark of curiosity, Brienne turned to where two of the craft service workers were huddled around a phone watching something.

_Gods, what had Jaime done this time? Had he signed some multi-million dragon deal with a major studio, lucky bastard? Had he thrown yet another tantrum on set, which would, of course, be completely forgiven because he was Jaime fucking Lannister, and the sun and moon rose and set only for him? Had he and Cersei broken up yet again or gotten together yet again or had a massive, public fight yet again?_

Whatever it was, it was sure to annoy the hell out of Brienne. Seriously, she hadn’t heard from the man, himself, in ten years. However, even though she tried to actively avoid him like the plague, the Universe apparently was determined to keep her apprised of his doings.

Not wanting to be too intrusive, Brienne surreptitiously watched, as one of the craft service workers brought her hand up to her face and covered her mouth, her expression stricken.

_Shit. That couldn’t be good._

Leaving her coffee on the table, Brienne strode over to where the two women were standing -- apparently watching a news report. Without waiting to be invited, Brienne elbowed in, watching as the picture on the screen shifted to a shot of a twisted, smouldering wreck.

“Gods,” she breathed, as the camera panned over the crumpled, blackened metal of what once had been a car.

“Jaime Lannister’s been in a massive motor accident,” one of the girls whispered, bringing Brienne up to speed. “They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

“What?” Brienne croaked out.

“Oh,” the girl said, looking up and noticing just who she was talking to. “Hells. You know him, don’t you? You two were on that show together. _Westerosi_ , right?” The girl reached out and put her hand on Brienne’s arm. “Gods, I’m so sorry.”

“What…?” Brienne said, watching as the screen flashed to a picture of Jaime and Cersei and then to a shot of a smiling Jaime on the set of his last big-budget film, before going back to the smoking twist of steel and plastic that had once been a car.

“Head-on collision,” the second girl explained, watching Brienne carefully, as if she expected Brienne to suddenly collapse. “The driver of the other car died on impact. Lannister was rushed to the hospital.”

The news report came to an end, and the girl holding the phone shut it off and turned to Brienne. “Should you go see him, do you think?”

“Hush, Cedra. They don’t even know if he is alive,” the other girl admonished.

Brienne let out a garbled sound, her mind whirling. _Go see him? She hadn’t seen him in ten years. She didn’t even like him._

“Yeah,” the girl named Cedra replied. “But even if he isn’t, she still should go. Be with his family. It’s the right thing to do, yeah? ”

“Maybe they weren’t that close,” the other girl hazarded, frowning at her friend. She turned to Brienne. “You two didn’t get along much back in the day, did ya? I remember reading about it.” She took in Brienne’s white face and shaking hands. “Gods, luv, you should sit down before you drop.” She turned and gestured towards her friend. “Cedra, bring a chair for Miss Tarth.”

“No, no,” Brienne protested, waving them away. “I just have to … um … I need to ... ah. Excuse me.” She turned and made her way back to the craft service table.

_Gods. Jaime. Was he dead? Surely not. Jaime Lannister was too indestructible -- too damn lucky to be dead. Nothing could touch him. The golden boy. The Lion of Lannisport. He couldn’t be dead. Could he?_

She stumbled back to the craft table, not knowing where else to go.

Robb, who was half-way through his own cup of black coffee and chatting lightly with one of the grips, turned to Brienne to include her in the conversation. However, he took one look at Brienne’s bloodless face and stopped mid-sentence, abruptly grabbing onto her arm. “Brienne. What is it?”

“There’s been an accident,” Brienne managed. “I need to.... “ _Shit. What did she need to do?_ “I need to um -- make some phone calls.” She tried to detangle herself from Robb’s grasp, but he held on.

“Wait a minute, Brienne. Are you OK? Who is it? What happened?”

“It’s… uh Jaime.”

Robb looked at her confused.

“Jaime Lannister. I worked with him on _Westerosi_.” Brienne shook her head. “He was in a car accident. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

“Hells, Brienne. Can I do anything?”

“No, no,” she said, trying again to shake off his hand. _She just needed to get to her trailer. Get to her trailer and then she could think._ She glanced over to where the cameras were still prepping for the next shot, before turning back to Robb. “Actually, can you just tell Stan that I need a few minutes? I just need to call and see if …”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Robb said. He let her go, but then thought the better of it, pulling her in for a fierce hug. “Come here.” His arms circled her, tight and steadying. “I’m so sorry, Bri. Gods, were you close with him?”

“We were…” Brienne trailed off. _Shit, what were they? They certainly weren’t friends, and enemies sounded too hyperbolic, especially with Jaime injured or dead._

_Dead?_

_No, surely not. He couldn’t be dead._

“We worked together for years,” Brienne finally settled on.

“I’m sorry,” Robb said, breaking the embrace but keeping a tight grip on her shoulders. “I’m here if you need me.”

Brienne nodded and turned to make her way towards her trailer, keeping her head down to avoid the curious looks.

_What the absolute hells was happening? How could this even be real? It was like she was trapped in some horribly melodramatic episode of Westerosi. One of those “serious” episodes that ended with a warning not to drive recklessly and a hotline number flashed at the bottom of the screen for all those viewers who needed to talk to someone about their feelings. Christ, that’s what she needed. She just needed to talk to someone. Talk to someone and find out what she was supposed to do. How she was supposed to feel._

Once in her trailer, Brienne fumbled for her phone, trying four times before finally managing to unlock it. With shaking fingers, she scrolled through her contacts, finding Sam’s name and pressing call.

Her stomach swirling madly, Brienne waited impatiently for Sam to pick up, listening to the dull ringing on the other end of the line and wondering desperately what she was going to say when the ringing stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you hoping for even more storylines and characters to keep track of? Well then, you are in luck, lol! 
> 
> I did warn you that this fic was going to be a crazy jumble of moving pieces (very much like my brain these days). Don't worry, if I do my job right, everything will come together in the end (fingers crossed). 
> 
> Thanks so much for staying the course. And thanks also to all of those lovely people who subscribed and left kudos and comments. You're the tops!
> 
> Hope everyone is hanging in there.


	4. Losing Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checks chapter title. Yep.

**“Losing Hand”**

**Ray Charles**

**“I gambled on your love, baby.**   
**And got a losing hand.**   
**Your ways keep changing**   
**Like the shifting desert sand.”**

**~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

Whether it was the drugs or the head injury or the shock of seeing the wreck of his face, Jaime spent most of the next several days in the dull, gray wasteland of sedation. Honestly, it was his favorite place to be these days. A place where he didn’t have to think or worry or despair. A place where he didn’t have to feel at all.

In fact he was in that very same blissful state of nothingness when Cersei finally showed up.

He heard her voice before he was fully conscious -- his nervous system conditioned to respond almost instantly, although his body remained still.

“Gods, that can’t be him. Are you sure it’s him?”

 _Cersei!_ Her voice was faint, distant -- as if it were being projected through layers of water. Yet even then, Jaime could feel the hair on his one good arm rise in response.

“What happened to him? What happened to his face?”

“We’ve been over all of this.”

_That was Tyrion. Tyrion’s voice. Jaime would recognize it anywhere._

“He was in a car accident. He’s lucky to be alive.”

“Will he go back to normal? Will he look the same?”

 _Fuck!_ Jaime wanted to say something, assure Cersei that he would go back to normal, but his brain seemed waterlogged -- soggy and dull -- the words sloshing around in his skull impotently.

“Honestly, that’s the least of his worries at the moment.” Tyrion sounded tired and put out. “Damn it, Cersei, I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the severity of the situation here.”

“Oh my poor, poor Jaime.”

He felt a light touch on his forehead, his skin burning. _Gods, her touch! He missed her touch._ He wanted to lift his head and meet her caress, but his stupid body wouldn’t respond.

“Why isn’t he awake?”

“He sleeps through most days,” Tyrion replied. “He’s had a massive shock to his system, and his body is still trying to cope with everything. The pain is bad, and he’s been running a fever lately. They’ve been giving him something to make him more comfortable.”

“He will wake up, though? You told me he was conscious -- that’s why I came. You know I can’t stay long, Tyrion. I’m in the middle of shooting my movie.”

Her movie. Of course, her movie. Cersei was in the middle of shooting a “major motion picture” that was guaranteed to be her big break -- well, another one of her “big breaks.” So far all of Cersei’s big breaks had turned out to be not breaks at all. It was ludicrous, really -- or so she assured everyone. With her looks and talent and family connections, she should be an “A Lister” by now, not the “B-”actress that the critics proclaimed her to be. But this movie (she insisted to whoever would listen), this movie was her golden ticket for sure. That’s why when she had heard about Jaime’s accident, she hadn’t come immediately. She had to be practical, she had told Tyrion. And no -- that didn’t mean she didn’t love Jaime. She loved him, loved him desperately -- only, there was nothing she could do for him when he was in a coma, was there? And hospitals were dangerous places. They were veritable germ factories. What if she caught something and held up production? All of that so she could hold Jaime’s hand while he was unconscious? No, no. Much better for her to ask for time off when Jaime was coherent and on the mend.

And so, in those ugly, early days directly after the accident, when the pain had been so overwhelming that it had reduced Jaime to a whimpering babe, Tyrion had been the one to hold Jaime, to try to comfort him, to soothe him when he cried out for Cersei. “She will come,” Tyrion had told Jaime. “She will come.”

And she had. She had come.

Nine days after Jaime had been admitted.

Tyrion laughed harshly. “Oh damn! Silly me. I forgot to mention to Jaime that you were in the middle of shooting. I’m sure he would have timed his unconsciousness differently, if only he had known your schedule.”

“That’s not what I meant, Tyrion, as you well know,” Cersei protested.

“Cersei, it’s only by the grace of the Seven that Jaime is even alive, and here you are…”

Jaime fought desperately to open his eyes. He knew Tyrion’s tone. Cersei was about two minutes away from being thrown out of the hospital room. Tyrion was little, but he could be damn vicious when he wanted to be.

“I’m sure he will wake up soon,” Tyrion continued icily. “For now, the most humane thing to do is to let him rest.”

“Can’t we wake him up, though?” Cersei asked, her voice taking on a petulant tone.

“I really don’t think …”

With a sheer force of will, Jaime pried one eye open, the room swimming muddily in front of him. _Gods it was hot. When had it become so hot?_

“Jaime, my love!” Cersei cried, instantly noticing his return to consciousness. She hurried to his bedside, arranging herself prettily on the edge of his mattress, as if she were playing the part of the beautiful, doting girlfriend.

“Cers,” Jaime mumbled, his voice rough and unsure. He blinked, trying to bring her into focus.

“Oh, Jaime,” Cersei cooed. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”

Tyrion huffed and went to the other side of Jaime’s bed, grabbing the yellow, plastic pitcher from the bedside table and pouring Jaime a drink of water, knowing from past experience that the cocktail of drugs they had Jaime on dried his throat and made speaking almost impossible.

“Cers,” Jaime tried again, once he had swallowed half the cup. Gods, why wasn’t his mouth working? Stupid, stupid drugs. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to feel her body against his. He wanted to assure her that everything was going to be OK. That this last week had been a nightmare but that things would be better now. Only he was just so damn hot.

“Oh my sweet, sweet boy,” Cersei said softly, running a cool hand through Jaime’s hair. “Your poor face. Your poor, beautiful face.” She gently ran the back of one glossy, red fingernail over Jaime’s swollen cheek. “What have you done, my darling? What on earth have you done? We used to look so alike.” Her voice was forlorn.

“Sor … I ...” Jaime tried desperately to apologize, to assure Cersei that everything was fine and that he would get better, only the drugs were making him queasy again. If only he could clear his head and make his godsdamn tongue work.

Cersei leaned closer, her face coming sharply into focus, her curtain of perfumed hair falling softly against Jaime’s chest. “What is it, my love? What are you trying to say?”

Suddenly Jaime felt the burning sensation in his gut splashing up into his throat.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Before he could even turn his head, he vomited up the water along with the remains of the breakfast he had tried to choke down earlier.

Cersei recoiled, shooting off the bed with a muted cry. She stood panting against the far wall, her beautiful, green dress splashed with vomit, a chunk of that morning's gruel in her hair.

Tyrion rose from his seat, standing on tip-toes to grab a fistful of paper towels from the dispenser. “Gods, Jaime! Shit, are you OK?” He threw a wad of towels over the watery vomit pooling in Jaime’s lap.

Jaime coughed and raised his poor, battered face -- not quite daring to look at Cersei, who was hugging the wall, looking like she was moments away from passing out.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaime gulped. The heat was burning his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK, Jaime,” Tyrion soothed. “Let me just call the nurse to get you cleaned up.” He pressed the call button.

Jaime looked worriedly over at Cersei. “Cers… I…”

“It’s fine,” Cersei said, her voice indicating how very not fine it was. She looked down at her dress and wrinkled her nose. “Um … listen, darling, why don’t I just dash back to my hotel and clean myself up?” Without waiting for Jaime’s answer, she started edging for the door, a tight smile on her face. “I'll come back tonight. Come see you tonight.”

“Cersei,” Jaime cried desperately. He tried to give her a smile, his swollen face only managing to twist in a vaguely macabre mask. “Thank you … I’m ..uh, glad you came. So glad.” He reached a shaking hand out towards her. “I missed you, Cers.”

Cersei smiled at him weakly. “Yes, darling. Me too,” she said, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Now you just work on feeling better, and I’ll be back tonight. Promise.” She blew him a kiss and turned to go out the door, almost colliding with the nurse who was coming to check on Jaime.

Tyrion looked at Cersei’s retreating form and bit back a cutting remark. Instead, he put on an overly-cheery grin and turned towards Jaime who was looking completely devastated. Reaching forward, Tyrion tapped Jamie on his good knee. “You’re beginning to make a habit of this, brother,” he tried to joke, gesturing down at the vomit. “I’m starting to think that this is your not so subtle way of commenting on the hospital food.”

The nurse gave Tyrion a pity smile, but Jaime’s face remained red and tight; and Tyrion once again cursed Cersei to all seven hells for making Jaime feel like even greater shit. It’s not like the poor guy didn’t have enough to contend with without having to worry about the sensibilities of Cersei bloody Baratheon.

The nurse stripped the bed, and Tyrion gamely turned his back when she went to change Jaime’s gown. It was not like Jaime cared. He had been poked and prodded and undressed and cleaned since he had awoken from the accident. But it mattered to Tyrion. Poor Jamie had suffered enough indignity. And now with Cersei and the whole vomiting episode, his brother was sure to be suffering even more.

Gods, that bloody woman! She promised she’d be back later in the evening, but Tyrion half-expected that she would “suddenly be called back to work” on that major motion picture of hers. Hells, what Jaime saw her in, Tyrion would never understand. Sure, she was beautiful; but most people in Jaime’s line of work were. The truth of the matter was that Cersei treated Jaime like shit -- worse than shit. And yet, despite all that, Jaime was always her greatest defender. It was absolutely inconceivable to Tyrion. Any person with half a brain could see that Cersei Baratheon only cared about Jaime when it was convenient for her to do so. Hells, look at how she had responded to Jaime’s accident. Nine days! Nine fucking days -- and Jaime so critical in the early hours that it was equal odds whether he would live or die. And then she shows up nine days later and leaves after twenty bloody minutes. It was enough to drive a man to drink -- certainly enough to drive Tyrion to drink. Perhaps Jaime would want to sleep some more, and Tyrion could run out to that disgusting little dive bar across from the hospital and drown his anger in a beer or seven.

It was only the nurse’s slightly concerned “hmm….” that pulled Tyrion from his angry reverie.

“You feel hot, dear,” the nurse told Jaime, laying a palm on Jaime’s forehead. Frowning, she reached over to check his chart. After a quick perusal, she bit her lip and went to Jaime’s bedside, pulling a digital thermometer out of her pocket. She ran it across his forehead, frowning again when she read his results. “Your fever’s up,” she said briskly, straightening Jaime’s blankets. “How long have you felt nauseous?”

“Pretty much since I regained consciousness,” Jaime muttered, his face flushing -- whether from the fever or the embarrassment of vomiting all over Cersei was anyone’s guess.

“They told us that an elevated temperature was quite common after major surgery,” Tyrion chimed in, turning around and approaching Jaime’s beside worriedly.

_Had Jaime’s eyes always looked so dull and clouded?_

“That should have resolved itself by now,” the nurse said. She pressed her lips together. “Can I see your hand, please, love?” Without waiting for Jaime to respond, the nurse unclasped the sling and deftly pulled the wrinkled fabric from Jaime’s arm. Gently grabbing his elbow, she carefully rotated the arm, closely examining the bandages. She then tsked and walked to the side of the room, pulling on a bright purple pair of latex gloves.

Jaime looked at Tyrion, his eyes wide and feverish.

The nurse returned to Jaime’s bedside and lightly took his hand in hers.

Jaime winced.

Cautiously she brushed her purple clad fingers over Jaime’s waxy, whitish-yellow fingertips, pressing and prodding and ignoring Jaime’s labored breathing.

After a cursory examination of Jaime’s exposed skin, the nurse nodded and stripped off the gloves, tossing them into the waste bin near the bedside. “Jaime, I think it’s best we call Dr. Qyburn. Your temperature is higher than I would like it, and I want him to check you.”

“Why?” Jaime said, worry flashing in his eyes. “Is it my hand?”

“It might be,” the nurse said. She patted him soothingly on his head. “Better safe than sorry, dear. We don’t want you getting any sicker now, do we? Not when you are finally on the mend.”

Jaime nodded dumbly. And with a final thoughtful frown and a nod to Tyrion, the nurse left the room.

When she had gone, Jaime looked at Tyrion, his eyes wild. “Do you think …?” he started, but Tyrion cut him off.

“Jaime, you’ve just had major surgery -- massive trauma. Your body is still in shock. Of course you are not firing on all cylinders yet. It would be odd if you weren’t feeling sick. I assure you, it will be fine. Everything will be fine.” He winked at Jaime and plastered on a false grin. “Father’s spending a fortune on all of this,” he said lightly, gesturing around the private room. “There is no way he would stand for you not receiving the very best care that money could buy.” Tyrion raised his eyebrows, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Say what you will about the old White Walker, but he insists on the best, and he puts the fear of Seven into people to make sure that they deliver it. He’ll see to it that you are well taken care of. Now is not the time to worry.”

“OK,” Jaime said numbly, closing his eyes. He rearranged himself on the bed, wincing at the movement, his body flushed and restless. “OK,” he murmured again. And after a minute or two of silence, he dropped back off to sleep.

And that was when Tyrion really began to worry.

**~~~~~~**

As it turned out, the old White Walker, himself, made an appearance later on that evening -- an hour or two after Jamie had been subjected to a battery of tests ordered by his doctor.

Although never the most effusive with his care and affection, to his credit, Tywin Lannister had spent most of the past week in Jaime’s hospital room or in the adjacent hospital lobby -- leaving only when he had been called away from his son’s bedside to supervise a hostile takeover of a competitor’s business in the Riverlands.

He was back now, striding into the room, giving a vague nod to Tyrion, inquiring about Jaime’s health, and then retreating to the hospital lobby to take a conference call from Harrenhal that couldn’t wait.

Jaime didn’t mind. Honestly, he was slightly dumbfounded that his father had shown any care at all. Besides, Jaime was presently too busy trying to hold it all together in front of Cersei to feel the least bit slighted by Tywin’s workaholic ways.

Much to Jaime’s relief and to Tyrion’s surprise, Cersei had returned to the hospital later on that evening, floating into the room in a cloud of red silk -- her long hair arranged in intricate, twisting, golden braids.

Gods, Jaime thought drowsily, things were so much easier to bear when Cersei was with him. In fact, he had stopped worrying about all the nurses and the doctors and the tests, the minute Cersei had smiled at him and blew him a kiss from across the room.

Jaime glanced longingly to where she sat, arranged primly on the orange, Naugahyde hospital chair that she had pulled far away from his bedside, just in case his nausea returned.

_Seven hells, she was beautiful! After all these years, she could still leave him breathless and shaking ... o_ _r maybe that was just the fever?_

Whatever it was, Cersei Baratheon was a hells of a good reason for Jaime not to despair about his current plight. Damn the nurse’s worried looks and the doctor’s vaguely concerned murmurs. Damn all those endless tests they had put him through. Cersei was here now. She was here, and she was the reason that Jaime was going to get better -- was going to get out of this fucking hospital and get back to his life -- get back to loving her. _Hells, he was great at loving her._ Really, really great at it. And look at her, sitting over there in all her gorgeous glory, listening to Tyrion as he read aloud Jaime’s get well cards and messages. Look at her rolling her lovely eyes and making bitchy comments about the people who had sent them.

_Gods, she was sexy. So damn sexy. And she was his. His!_

“Seven hells, this one is from Brienne Tarth!” Tyrion cried, fingering the tag on a largish green plant that the nurses had deposited on the side counter of the room.

Jaime looked up, suddenly pulled from his romantic daydreams.

 _“Jaime, wishing you a speedy recovery and return to health. Best, Brienne Tarth.”_ Tyrion read, his voice incredulous. “Well, not a whole lot of warmth there, but I’m surprised she sent anything at all considering how you guys left things.”

“Stupid cow,” Cersei muttered from her perch.

“Now, now, Cersei,” Tyrion said mockingly. “Surely you’re not still threatened by Brienne. She and Jaime haven’t acted together in ten years.”

Cersei huffed, affronted. “Threatened? Tyrion, is Jaime’s fever catching? Why on earth would I feel threatened by that … woman?”

Tyrion grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. You didn’t quite like it much that she and Jaime had such amazing chemistry.”

“Please,” Cersei said grimacing. “She was ridiculous. Those big, sad cow eyes and pathetic chin wobble. Completely one note as an actress.” She looked over at Jaime for confirmation.

“She sent a plant?” was all he said. Suddenly the light was making his poor head pound. He tried to hide a grimace as his stomach burned and a line of cold sweat broke out on his hairline. Shit -- he better not be getting sick again. If he vomited yet again, he would scare Cersei off for good.

Before Tyrion could reply, the door opened, and Tywin came in scowling. The conference call must not have gone well.

Jaime opened his mouth to ask about it but closed it again when he saw that Dr. Qyburn had followed Tywin into the room.

“Jaime,” Tywin said, his pale, cold gaze boring into him. There was something there in his father’s eyes. Something frightening -- only Jaime couldn’t quite grasp what it was. “Dr. Qyburn needs to talk to you.”

 _Shit._ Jaime swallowed. _This couldn’t be good._

“Yes, yes,” Qyburn said, coming around to stand by Jaime’s bedside. He reached a long, thin hand to touch Jaime’s head and then bent down to look at Jaime’s injured hand. “Mr. Lannister, I’m afraid there is no easy way to say this,” the doctor began, his voice cold and impersonal.

“Then don’t,” Jaime said. He could feel his heart racing, the flush of adrenaline spilling over him.

“We’ve spoken before about your hand,” the doctor continued. “I told you that we did our very best to save it, to repair enough of the circulation to keep it, even if your coordination and motor skills never fully returned. However …” Qyburn paused and glanced over at Tywin.

Tywin nodded.

“I’m afraid our tests today prove that our efforts weren’t enough. The hand is not receiving blood flow. It’s slowly dying, and infection is setting in. That’s the reason for the fever, for the nausea.” Qyburn cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, Mr. Lannister.” He paused and flicked his eyes to Jaime’s hand. “I’m afraid that we will need to amputate. Soon.”

Jaime blinked, unconsciously pulling his injured hand to his chest and away from Qyburn’s glance. “No,” he said, his voice strangled.

“I’m afraid it’s the only option,” Qyburn continued. “We tried. We gave it some time, but your body is starting to be compromised. We don’t want the infection to spread. You could end up losing more of your arm or even your life.”

“No,” Jaime said again. He heard Cersei’s intake of breath, Tyrion’s restless movements, but he refused to look at them.

“This is not a choice, Mr. Lannister. If we don’t do this, you will die.”

“Then fuck it! I’ll die,” Jaime said, his voice cracking in vehemence. “At least I’ll go out fighting.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lannister…”

“Fuck your apology,” Jaime said. With his good hand he threw off his blankets, trying to maneuver his bad leg off of the bed. “Bring me release papers. I will sign them. I’ll exempt the hospital from any liability. But I am leaving. I am leaving right now. Right now!” He turned to Tyrion then. “Tyrion, get me some clothes to wear. Bring the car around. I’m getting out of this godsforsaken hellhole.”

“Jaime…” Tyrion said, his face stricken.

“Tyrion,” Jaime cried, desperate. Without realizing, he had started to cry, steady streams of tears sliding down his hot face. “Please, Tyrion. Help me with this. I need you.”

“Mr. Lannister…” Qyburn attempted, putting a firm hand on Jaime’s chest to hold him back.

“Get off of me!” Jaime shouted, pushing the doctor away, his IV pole tilting unsteadily with his movement.

“Jaime!” Tyrion came around to try to soothe him, but Jaime shook him off too, flailing his good arm wildly.

“No!”

“Enough!” Tywin’s voice was coldly sharp, broaching no argument. He glared at Jaime, his expression hard and fierce. “You are acting like a spoiled child, Jaime. Stop this nonsense at once.”

“But Father,” Jaime pleaded.

“No. This will happen,” Tywin said stiffly. He nodded at the doctor. “Dr. Qyburn is the medical expert, not you.” Jaime opened his mouth, but Tywin held up a hand, effectively silencing him. “They tried to save your hand, Jaime. They tried, and they failed. There is nothing you can do now. It is over.” His normally blue eyes were a steely gray. “This will happen, son. The amputation will happen. And I will hear no argument.”

“Father, please,” Jaime cried, his tears coming in earnest.

“Be a man, Jaime,” Tywin said. “For gods’ sake, for once in your life, be a man.”

**~~~~~~**

Later, after Tywin had left to discuss the surgery with the doctor, and Cersei, white faced and shell-shocked, had retreated back to her hotel, Tyrion had tried to comfort Jaime. He had tried. Gods’ help him, he had tried. But Jaime had only numbly ignored him and then screamed at him, unleashing a dark torrent of rage and fear and frustration that culminated in Jaime throwing a vase of flowers at Tyrion’s head and telling him in no uncertain terms to fuck off and to never come back.

Tyrion had left then, brushing shards of glass out of his hair and muttering desperate, guilty apologies.

And now Jaime was alone. He was alone. He was fucking alone in this godsdamn hospital room. He was alone, and they were going to amputate his hand in the morning.

He shuddered, his pulse beating rapidly against his hot skin.

The nurse had tried to give him a sedative, tried to ease his anxiety and discomfort, but he had shouted her out of the room as well. He would not go quietly. He. Would. Not.

Gods this whole thing was a nightmare. He just needed to wake-up. He was Jaime Lannister, for fuck’s sake. Things like this didn’t happen to him.

They couldn’t take his hand -- his right hand. He was nothing without that hand. How would he act? How would he model? How would he fucking be Jaime Lannister? No one wanted to hire a cripple. No one wanted to watch a cripple as a leading man -- as a love interest -- as a sex object. No one would want him, and Jaime’s entire identity was based on the fact that people wanted him. They wanted him, godsdamnit! They wanted him! And now they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t want him at all.

He swiped a hand across his face, smearing tears and snot across his swollen cheek, and looked over at the counter, his eyes coming to rest on to the inanely stupid plant from Brienne Tarth.

Brienne Tarth. Brienne fucking Tarth. Gods, what would she have to say about all of this? Probably something pompously prosaic and insufferable. _“You’re not your hand, Jaime. Steady on, Jaime. People all over the world have hardships, Jaime. You are just one of the many now. Get over yourself.”_

Shit, he hated her -- hated her and her ridiculous idealism and strength and noble fortitude. Hells, if she were in his shoes, Brienne Tarth surely wouldn’t break down. Wouldn’t be crying like a newborn babe. She’d just accept reality and get on with it -- stupid, gigantic, stalwart ox of a woman.

Jaime choked on a sob. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to quiet his mind and slow his racing heart. It was the middle of the night, and in a few short hours they would be coming for him. Coming for him to take his hand. And all he could do was to sit here and cry. Cry alone in the dark in an empty hospital room.

“Fuck,” he breathed out and turned toward the bedside table to pick up his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I fully realize that most people ignore the musical recommendations and song lyrics included in fics; but this one is Ray Charles! Ray Charles, children! I listened to this song on repeat when I wrote this chapter, and I think I am a far better person for it. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and for sending your support and encouragement. I always, always appreciate it. XOXO


	5. Ghosts That We Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello from the other side.

**“Ghosts That We Knew”**

**Mumford and Sons**

**“‘Cause you know my call.**   
**And we’ll share my all,**   
**And now children come, and they will hear me roar**   
**So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light**   
**'Cause oh that gave me such a fright**   
**But I will hold as long as you like**   
**Just promise me we'll be all right”**

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

The shrill ringing sound in her left ear violently wrenched Brienne from a heavy slumber, catapulting her upright and sending her scrambling for her phone.

_Shit! Shit! Why was her ringer on? Her ringer was never on._

Disoriented, Brienne fumbled in the cheap cotton sheets of her king sized bed, the one concession to comfort that production had given her, until she finally made contact with the slick case of her phone. Her brain was still stupidly trying to grasp where she was and what exactly was happening, when she pressed accept on the call, blessedly silencing the jarring ringing.

“Hello?” she rasped, her heart pumping from the anxiety and exertion.

There was no sound but a heavy, labored breathing from the other end.

Brienne blinked, trying to make out her surroundings in the pitch blackness of her trailer. “Hello?” she tried again. “Is there anybody there?”

This time she heard a noise, a low, muttered obscenity -- half angry, half despairing. And then the labored breathing resumed.

Suddenly, Brienne’s brain kicked into sharp focus, and her eyes widened uselessly in the darkness. _Holy fucking Seven._ Even in her exhausted, adrenaline-flooded state, Brienne recognized the voice. It had been ten years, but she recognized it all the same. “Jaime?”

She heard a sharp intake of breath and then a strangled half-laugh. “Tarth,” came the muttered reply.

_Definitely Jaime._

_Shit. Was this a dream?_

Brienne’s brain fought to make sense of the new information. Wasn’t Jaime in the hospital recovering from his accident? It couldn’t be him calling. Why would he be calling -- at the ass-end of the night, no less? And why the hells would he be calling her of all people?

_This had to be a dream._

Ever since the accident, Jaime had been on her mind; and this was simply her tired brain’s attempt to process everything. If she waited a few minutes, surely she would wake up, or the dream would simply shift to something else -- most likely to that recurring nightmare she had about showing up to work wearing only her character’s sword belt.

Brienne sat in the dark, holding the phone slightly away from her and waiting.

“What’s the matter, Tarth? Cat got your tongue? Have I rendered you speechless?” Although rough and weak, the voice was still undeniably Jaime -- Jaime if he had taken to smoking two packs a day and swallowing cheese graters for fun.

“Jaime?” Brienne repeated. “What are you …? Why …? Shit, are you…?”

She had heard through Sam that Jaime was on the mend. His injuries had been extremely serious, and he would face a difficult, uphill battle to recovery, but, last she had heard, he would recover. She had sent him a plant and her well wishes for a speedy return to health. But nowhere in her generically bland card had she suggested he call her. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. So why was he calling her? “Are you OK?”

Jaime laughed loudly, a laugh that seemed more like a sob masquerading as levity. “Fuck no, Tarth. If I were OK, would I be calling you?”

Brienne grimaced, her tired defenses registering the hit. _Fucking Jaime Lannister. Even injured and bedridden he still had the power to cut her down with a simple, off-hand remark._ She knew better than to open herself up to him again. “Why ARE you calling me then at ...” she checked the time on her phone, “2:57 in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jaime muttered, matching her testy tone.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Brienne repeated.

_Holy shit. Ten years. Ten years of complete radio silence, and now this bullshit. Godsdamn the bastard for making her feel sorry for him. She never should have sent that thrice damned plant._

“Ah, I see. You couldn’t sleep, and you thought, what the hells, why not call Brienne, even though we haven’t spoken to each other in ten years?” Brienne fought to keep her voice neutral and unaffected. She wouldn’t let him rattle her -- at least not until she found out why he was calling her in the first place.

“Yeah,” Jaime replied. “That’s about right.”

“I see.”

“Well, you were always a sharp one, Tarth.”

Brienne ignored the dig. This whole thing was crazy. There was no way in seven hells Jaime Lannister would have picked up the phone to call her from his hospital bed in the middle of night just because he couldn’t sleep. There had to be more to this than he was letting on.

“Jaime, is something wrong?” Brienne tried cautiously.

“I got your plant,” Jaime said, abruptly changing the subject. “Bold move, Tarth, sending a plant instead of the normal flowers one expects in situations such as these. I mean recovery’s going to be difficult enough -- why not give an invalid the responsibility of keeping something alive at the same time? Truly thoughtful of you.”

“Fuck off,” Brienne huffed, her old defensiveness bubbling up, despite her best efforts to remain calm.

Jaime chuckled. “Ah, there she is. There’s the Brienne Tarth that I know and … well, that I know.”

“Shut up.” She wasn’t going to start this with him. She wasn’t. It was late, and she had an early call tomorrow, and she desperately needed to sleep. To sleep. Not to argue with Jaime bloody Lannister whom she hadn’t spoken to in ten bloody years. “You don’t know shit about me, Lannister.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Brienne. I would bet good money that I know you better than most.”

She laughed at that. “Ah, I see. Did you hit your head then, or is that just the drugs talking?”

“As a matter of fact, I did hit my head. Hard. Had a bit of brain swelling, in fact. Almost died, or hadn’t you heard?”

Brienne winced, instantly feeling the sting of guilt. “Yeah. I heard.”

“Were you sorry?”

“What?”

“When you thought I might die?” His voice was still scratchy and brittle but sharply challenging just the same. “Were you sorry?”

“Of course I was sorry, you idiot,” she replied, angry that he could have thought any differently. “Of course I didn’t want you to die. I’m not a sociopath. You’re confusing me with Cersei.”

“I don’t know,” Jaime teased halfheartedly. “I seem to remember you wishing for my immediate and painful death numerous times when we worked together.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes you did," he insisted.

“Jaime,” Brienne sighed, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the last few weeks wash over her. It had been ten years. Ten years! She didn’t have the brain power or the practice to verbally spar with Jaime bloody Lannister. “What’s wrong?”

“What? Can’t I just call an old friend?”

“Jaime, we’ve never been friends.”

“Ouch, Tarth. Way to kick a man when he’s down.” He paused, the phone going silent. “Maybe I’ve reevaluated a few things after almost dying. Seen the proverbial light, if you will. Maybe I want to mend some fences.”

“Is that what happened?” Brienne asked incredulously.

“No.”

“Jaime,” she tried again, the exhaustion making her voice crack. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Jaime fell silent once more, breathing in and out.

Brienne waited, her fingers absently playing with the frayed end of her top sheet.

“They’re going to take it.” The words came out wet and heavy.

“Take what?” Brienne asked, not quite succeeding in keeping the impatience from her voice.

“My hand.” Jaime barked out a laugh, the incongruousness of his response jarring Brienne more than his words.

“In the morning. They are going to put me under and then they are going to saw off my right hand, and I’m going to wake up a few hours later with an empty wrist.”

“Christ, Jaime...” Brienne breathed, her irritation bleeding out with her exhale.

“They sent me to bed tonight with an extra blanket and a pat on my head -- to sleep. Somehow they expect me to sleep knowing that…” he broke off. “Knowing that my hand is going to be medical waste come sunrise.”

“Damn, I ...”

“The truth is, Brienne,” Jaime cut her off, his voice high and strained. “I don’t know why I called you. It’s stupid, I know. I just saw your ridiculous plant and your card. And I’m sitting here in this fucking hospital room waiting patiently to be permanently maimed in the morning -- and I just couldn’t stand the sound of my own thoughts for one more minute. I was lying here imagining them doing it, hearing the sound of the bone saw in my head, and then I thought about you -- and about how you would handle this whole situation if you were in this position. I mean surely Brienne Tarth would handle this like a champ, right? Surely she would be brave and stoic -- would have no trouble making sense of this whole thing -- finding meaning in this fucking storm of shit. And then I just …” he broke off, his breathing erratic. Coughing, he tried to catch his breath. “ I just …” He was gasping now, making harsh, panicked sounds. “Fuck…”

“Jaime?” Brienne said worriedly. “Jaime? Jaime, breathe. Just breathe.” She could hear him gasping for breath on the other end of the line.

_Shit. He was having a panic attack._

“Jaime,” Brienne said in the sternest voice she could muster. “Jaime stop talking. Stop trying to talk, OK? Just listen. Listen to my voice and concentrate on breathing in and out.”

“I can’t …” Jaime rasped, wheezing.

“Yes you can. You can. Jaime, listen to me. Listen. Take a deep breath in. Like this.” She inhaled noisily, exaggerating her breath. “Listen to me, Jaime. Listen, to me. Now you. You do it.”

She heard a strangled inhalation on the other side of the line.

“Good. Good. Now out again -- all the way out.” She let out her breath with a whoosh, listening as Jaime released his own stuttered breath. “Good. Good. Now in again.”

He fought against her at first, but after a few minutes of direct commands, he started breathing in tandem with her. And after about five minutes which felt like the longest three hours of Brienne’s life, Jaime’s breathing finally began to steady.

When he had calmed down enough to truly hear and comprehend her again, Brienne stopped the exaggerated breathing. “Jaime, do you see the button for the nurse?”

“Yes.” His voice was still thin, but he wasn’t struggling for breath anymore.

“Good. I want you to push the button for the nurse, OK?” Brienne instructed gently. “I want you to ask her for a sedative or something for anxiety.”

“No, no,” Jaime rasped. “I’m OK now. I’m OK.”

“You’re not OK,” she argued. “Nor should you be OK. This is a lot. This is a lot for you to deal with all by yourself. It’s OK to need help, Jaime.” _Hells, Brienne wouldn’t currently say no to a sedative, herself, and she wasn’t the one facing an amputation in the morning._

“I don’t want …” he broke off.

“You don’t want what?”

“I don’t want a sedative,” he replied, his voice pleading. “I don’t want to sleep. It’s … it’s my last night with my hand. My last night whole, Brienne. It’s my last …” She could hear the tears building behind his voice.

“OK, OK, Jaime,” Brienne soothed, barely able to bear the vulnerability in his voice. She had to keep him calm to stave off another panic attack. “OK, no sedative. No sedative. It’s fine.”

Jaime tried to laugh. “Oh, come on, Tarth,” he said, his tone bordering on desperate. “Isn’t this where you tell me that I’ll always be whole? That I’m more than my right hand and to count my blessings and just be happy I’m alive and that I’ve been given a second chance…?” he broke off in a sob.

“Oh, Jaime,” Brienne said softly.

“Come on, where’s that stiff upper lip, I can always count on?” Jaime said, through tears “Where’s the fucking pep talk? Really, I expected more from you, Tarth.”

“Jaime, I’m sorry,” Brienne replied. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Jaime tried to joke, his voice shaking slightly. “You fucking hate me.”

“I do not!” Brienne protested, her voice vehement.

“Yes, you do!”

Brienne huffed out a sigh of angry resignation. “OK, maybe so. But it’s been ten years, Jaime. It’s no longer an active sort of hate.”

“Oh, more like a latent hate, then?”

“Yes, more like that.”

Jaime laughed the first real laugh of the conversation. “Gods, Tarth. I’ve missed this.”

Brienne ignored his statement, needing him to understand that she didn’t wish him ill, regardless of their history. “Jaime you do know that I wouldn’t want this for you, no matter how much of an asshole I think you are,” Brienne said earnestly.

He tried to protest, but she cut him off.

“And, Jaime, scoff all you want, but you ARE more than your hand.”

“There’s the fucking platitudes. I knew you couldn’t hold back.”

“Shut up. You are more, you idiot. Much more than your hand.”

“Yeah, well tell that to my agent. You know as well as I do that, in this business, physical imperfection is a career killer. There are not many people out there who are willing to pay good money to see the freakish and imperfect on the big screen.”

Brienne sucked in a breath. _Damn, suckered again. Just when she thought he may have a shred of decency, he goes and cuts her down. Suddenly Brienne was sixteen years old again, trying to brush off one of Jaime’s disparaging comments about her height or her looks or her smile or her voice. Trying not to die of humiliation every time he pointed out how very freakish and imperfect he found her to be._

“Brienne…” Jaime suddenly seemed to realize the implication of his statement. “Brienne, I …”

“It’s fine,” Brienne said flatly.

“I was talking about me. I wasn’t talking about ...”

“It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t, Brienne.”

“Whatever.”

“Brienne. Listen …I just meant ...”

“Stop. I don’t need an explanation,” Brienne gritted out. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“I know that. You never did,” Jaime said, resigned.

“But you obviously need something from me, or you wouldn’t have called. Why did you call me, Jaime? Why not call Cersei or Addam or Aiden? What do you want from me?

Jaime was silent. “I want you to talk to me. I want you to talk to me until they come for me in the morning.”

“Why me?”

“Because…” he broke off, his voice raw. “Because you already think the worst of me. I don’t have to worry about pretending to be anything but a weak, selfish asshole because, to you, I’ve always been a weak, selfish asshole.”

“Jaime …”

“And, shit, I don’t think you’ve ever been weak a day in your life. You’re strong. You’re stupidly strong, and you’ve had to face your share of shit. Gods, Brienne, you just face it -- all of it. And I thought -- it’s stupid I know, but ... I just thought that maybe if I talked to you, I …” The phone went silent. Brienne could hear Jaime sniffing wetly in the background.

“Look, Jaime…”

“I’m scared, Brienne. I’m so fucking scared. I’m scared I’m going to wake up, and I’ll be gone. Just gone. Jaime Lannister will have been cut off and incinerated with the rest of the medical waste. And then who will I be? Who the hells will I be?”

“Jaime …”

“Please, Brienne. I don’t want to think about it. Just please, please talk to me.”

Brienne felt her own eyes smart and blinked to keep the tears at bay. He was an asshole. Had always been a total and complete asshole. But he was scared. And he was hurting. And he was alone. And Brienne was a decent person capable of empathy and compassion even though -- well, even though Jaime Lannister had never actually shown her much empathy or compassion, himself.

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat and inhaling resolutely. “So I’m on a new series.”

“What?” Jaime asked through his tears, confused at the rapid turn in the conversation.

“It’s called _Knights of the Seven Kingdoms_ , and it’s a cross between a medieval drama with knights and kingdoms and a science fiction adventure with warlords battling in space.”

Jaime choked out a damp laugh, sniffing loudly. “It’s about space knights?”

“It’s really well done,” Brienne said primly.

“I’m sure it is,” Jaime quipped. “Incredibly realistic, I bet.”

“Fuck off, Lannister.”

“Do you play one of these space knights or are you a maiden fair who needs to be rescued?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, putting aside the ‘fair’ part, I think you’d kill anyone who would even presume that you needed to be rescued. So if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say knight.”

“Yeah. The first and only woman knight.”

“Makes sense. Do you get to use a sword?”

“Yeah.”

“A real sword or one of those lightsaber things?”

“Real. A longsword. And it’s fucking heavy. My trainer has me lifting an obscene amount of weight just so I can wield the damn thing.” She smiled. “Took a crack across the knee last week during a practice spar. I could barely walk for days. I’m still hobbling a bit.”

“Gods, Dunc Duncan with a longsword. This I have to see,” Jaime mused, his voice starting to even out. “So how does the whole space thing come into it?”

“Well, there are seven kingdoms -- each kingdom consisting of a set of planets and space stations,” Brienne explained patiently. “There used to be a centralized monarch who controlled the whole galaxy, but he went mad and was killed by one of his guards, throwing the whole realm into chaos. This chaos happened to coincide with an era of darkness -- literal darkness. They call it Winter with a capital “W” on the show. Don’t you dare laugh,” she warned, when she heard a stifled cough on the other end of the line.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Anyway, taking advantage of this darkness and the instability of the realm, Warlords started seizing control of the kingdoms, killing, invading, imprisoning -- you know, doing what Warlords are known to do. Basically, all the old codes of honor went up in wildfire the minute Winter hit, leaving the universe completely lawless.”

“And that’s where you come in?”

“That’s where I come in. Well, me and six other knights who ride around trying to restore justice and honor and bring light into a world of darkness.”

Jaime whistled a low whistle. “A far cry from Westerosi High’s Academic Decathlon Team and Chess Club, I guess.”

Brienne laughed. “I don’t know. Ser Arianne of Drangonstone is a pretty smart cookie -- infinitely smarter than her male counterparts who, of course, always underestimate her.”

“Of course they do,” Jaime pointed out. “Everyone always underestimates you. Much to their detriment, I may add, strictly speaking from experience.”

Brienne smiled a bemused smile. “Watch it, Lannister. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Perish the thought,” Jaime quipped, sounding more and more like the Jaime of old.

Brienne leaned back against the pillows, allowing herself to relax. As the minutes stretched into hours, she kept up a steady stream of babble -- trying to distract Jaime with inconsequential details about shooting _Knights of the Seven Kingdoms_ , her new co-stars, life in Winterfell (where the series was shot), and any other random topic she could think of until finally, finally, Jaime’s responses slowed down and then blessedly stopped altogether.

Brienne fell quiet, simply waiting. After ten minutes of total silence, Brienne hit “speaker” on her phone and carefully positioned it on her pillow. She closed her eyes tiredly and slid down until she was prone on her back, pulling the covers up and over herself.

Under the blankets, Brienne flexed the fingers of her right hand and pulled them into a fist against her hip, the weight of her hand heavy on the jutting bone. Gods, she couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to lose a hand -- a fucking hand. Poor Jaime. Poor conceited, narcissistic, terrible, horrible Jaime. God knows she wasn’t his biggest fan, wasn’t really a fan at all. However, she wouldn’t wish a loss of a limb on her worst enemy.

Maybe thanks to her, he could sleep a bit, though. Sleep a bit before having to face the impossible.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Brienne shifted to her side, trying to make sense of the strange turn of events that the night had brought. Trying to make sense of the fact that Jaime had called her -- that he had wanted to talk to her. Trying to make sense of how this broken, ghost of a man could possibly be the selfish asshole of her memories. Trying to make sense of everything, until the ragged inhalation and exhalation of Jaime Lannister finally lulled her into a restless and shallow sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had a lighter chapter for you after the heaviness of this week. But alas, it's a rough road for poor Jaime right now. 
> 
> Regardless, thanks so much for reading and for supporting this story. It means the world.


	6. My Losing Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is conflicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make it super complicated, I’m playing a bit with POV and verb tense here. If you’re confused, here’s a handy-dandy chart: the present action (Brienne and Jaime) will be written in the past tense. TV scenes from Brienne and Jaime’s POV as they are acting are also written in the past tense. However, the TV scenes in the TV characters’ POV (Roman, Dunc, Arianne, Brynden, etc.) will be written in the present tense. 
> 
> Sorry if this is confusing. It's just how my pandemic brain is processing at the moment, and I’ve decided not to fight it. 
> 
> Also, on a serious note, there are references to assault in this chapter, so mind how you go.

**“My Losing Bet”**

**The Avett Brothers**

**“But wait we’re not there yet,**   
**And though I'm losing the bet**   
**There's still the sunset”**

**~~~~~~**

**Fourteen and a Half Years Ago:**

Brienne was tired. A bone-weary exhaustion that made every joint in her body ache. Yesterday had been brutal -- really, really brutal. _“But at least it’s over,”_ she reminded herself, as she dutifully took her mark and waited for the call to action.

In actuality, the previous day’s shooting had been the most difficult day of acting Brienne had experienced in her short career. Not only had she had to endure Ramsay Bolton’s overzealously moist “kisses” ( _was the boy part leech or something?_ ), but she had to strip down to her bra in front of the entire set. Her freaking bra! The whole thing wouldn’t have been so bad if Brienne had possessed anything close to the curvy, alluring figure of someone like Cersei Baratheon or Margaery Tyrell. But Brienne was all lean muscle and overdeveloped pectorals, which apparently didn’t translate very well to film -- for, in a scene worthy of one of Brienne’s most humiliating nightmares, the director had taken one look at her pitifully flat, A cups and immediately called for wardrobe to, “bring on the padding!”

Bolton had totally loved that, sick bastard. He had watched ferally from behind his fringe (died red in concession to his character’s nickname, Red Ronnet), his eyes gleaming in delight. But Brienne had gotten through it. She had gritted her teeth and gotten through it. Had come home and immediately taken a long, hot shower, trying to wash away the feeling of Ramsay’s tongue on her neck and the wardrobe lady’s cold fingers in her bra -- but she had gotten through it just the same.

By comparison, today’s scene would be a walk in the park. It was just Brienne and Jaime and a tearful confession.

Oh, Jaime Lannister certainly wasn’t her favorite person to work with. However, although he was a pompous asshole who was in love with his own reflection, at least Jaime wasn’t a practicing psychopath. And at least this time, Brienne could keep her damn shirt on.

Anne, the make-up lady, came over to apply a wet flush to Brienne’s cheeks. The scene they were shooting was picking up after Dunc, humiliated by Ron, runs out of the bedroom and into the party. Brienne would have to cry today -- to cry and cry and cry. However, she felt oddly prepared for the emotionally taxing scene -- yesterday’s trauma still fresh enough in her memory for her to pull from.

Anne finished applying the redness to Brienne’s cheeks and then reached over to move Brienne’s torn shirt so that it exposed the hickey painted on her collarbone and one sad bra strap. “There, love,” she said, chuffing Brienne under the chin. “You look completely wrecked.”

“Thanks?” Brienne said with a sheepish smile, not able to stop a real blush from creeping up her neck.

“Ready?” the AD called from the bottom of the stairs.

Anne moved away, and Brienne gave the thumbs up.

“All right. Quiet on the set. Rolling. Action.”

**~~~**

  
**_Westerosi,_ Season 21, Episode 5:“The Bet”**   
**Scene 18, Take 1 A-mark**

_Dunc barrels down the last of the stairs, making a beeline for the front door. She barely notices her surroundings: the people, the drinks, the noise, the music. She feels her shirt flap open, feels a cool breeze against her exposed skin and, blushing, reaches a shaking hand up to grasp the torn corner of her blouse and clutch it tightly to her meager chest._

_Head down, she hears a faint, strangled sob from somewhere in the room but doesn’t pause long enough to figure out where it is coming from, so intent is she on escaping. She watches her feet in her stupid, grown-up shoes stumble their way across the beige, shag carpet, not daring to look up to meet the pitying glances of her classmates. She can’t look up. Won’t look up and give them the satisfaction. She is so focused on keeping her eyes on the floor, she doesn’t see the person who steps into her path from the kitchen. Doesn’t see him until she barrels into his solid bulk._

_“Shit, freak. Watch where you’re going or you’ll be wearing this beer.”_

_Startled, Dunc looks up into the annoyed eyes of Roman Webber._

_“Sorry,” she whispers, clumsily sidestepping him on wobbling heels and trying again to make it to the door. However, before she can, he reaches out with his free hand and catches her arm._

_“Dunc?” he asks, his voice strange._

_Gods. Is he going to give her crap too? He’s probably in on the bet. Probably knows about the whole thing and wants to rub it in -- make her humiliation known to the entire room. She looks at him with terrified eyes, blinking to keep her tears at bay._

_“Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” she tells herself firmly._

_Roman gives her a puzzled look._

_Crap, did she just say that out loud?_

_Her eyes dart around the room, panicked. She can’t cry. At least, not yet. Not until she is far away from this horrible house and these horrible people._

_She looks to the door again. Gods, she’s so close. So, so close. She just needs stupid Roman Webber to let go of her stupid arm._

_“Seven hells, Dunc. What happened to you?” Roman asks, taking in her tattered shirt and smeared mascara._

_Gods, her damn mascara. What had she even been thinking putting on make-up and dressing up? Eye liner and heels won’t fix her ridiculous face -- her massive body. The whole thing is just a big, stupid joke, and she is the big, stupid punchline._

_“Nothing. Nothing. I’m fine. I just have to go,” she mutters, cursing her voice for its breathy weakness._

_“Shit. Come here.” Roman tightens his grip on her arm and pulls her through a door and into the kitchen._

_A few underclassmen are standing around drinking and shooting the shit. They look up when Roman and Dunc enter._

_“Fuck off,” Roman growls at them, and they immediately disperse._

_Roman pushes Dunc over to the counter, not releasing her until he has her trapped against the kitchen island._

_“What happened?” he asks again, his voice hard._

_Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he isn’t in on it. But that doesn’t mean he won’t laugh when he finds out. Roman freaking Webber who hates her brother and calls her “freak” and makes fun of her every chance he gets._

_“Nothing. Nothing happened,” Dunc replies, refusing to meet his eye. “I just have to get home. Please.”_

_She has started shaking. She can feel the tremors vibrating her body. Nervously, she presses her hands onto the cold tiles of the countertop, willing the shaking to stop; but her body refuses to obey._

_Impatient, Roman grabs her shoulders, his grip oddly warm against her cold flesh. “Tell me, Dunc. Tell me right now.”_

_But she won’t look at him. “I’m fine. I’m fine, really.” Her eyes skitter to the half empty bottles of alcohol and overturned, red solo cups littering the kitchen island. She should never have accepted that drink when Ron offered. What had she been thinking? She is way out of her depth here. Stupid, goody-goody Dunc Duncan. The smart girl who should have known better. Gods, she should have known better._

_He shakes her lightly, trying to get her to focus on him. “Goddammit, Dunc. Tell me what happened or I’m going to fucking go out there and interrogate every damn person at this party.”_

_Oh crap, no, no! No one else can know what just happened. She can’t … there is no way she can go back to school if everyone knows. She looks at him, her expression pleading._

_“Christ,” Roman mutters suddenly, releasing her shoulders and recoiling, his face stricken. “Gods, don’t cry.”_

_Surprised, she reaches up to her face, touching wetness. When had she started crying? “I’m sorry,” she whispers._

_“Don’t be sorry, godsdamn it,” he says, reaching for her arm again. This time his fingers are loose, almost gentle. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Please, Dunc. Tell me.” He looks at her like -- well, like he cares._

_And so she tells him. She tells him about the bet and how stupid she has been. She tells him about Red Ronnet and his sweet words and soft gestures. How he kissed her and undressed her and told her how beautiful she was. And then how he laughed at her, telling her he couldn’t go through with it. Wouldn’t go through with it. That he wouldn’t fuck her if she were the last girl left on earth -- asking if she was, in fact, a girl because, looking at her tits, or lack there of, he wasn’t really sure._

_With every word, she watches the muscles in Roman’s face tighten and his eyes darken murderously._

_When she is finished, they stand in silence._

_Her face is a mess of tears and watery snot, so she sniffs, running a hand under her nose. In the telling of her tale, her shirt has fallen open, and the whiteness of her sensible, cotton bra is on display yet again. “Gods,” she sighs tiredly, pulling the torn end of her shirt across her chest, hunching her shoulders, as if she can somehow make herself disappear._

_The gesture seems to pull Roman out of whatever trance he has been in. He inhales harshly, shucking off his red and gold letterman jacket._

_“Here,” he says, helping her into the jacket and fastening it across her front._

_It fits perfectly, warm from his body heat and smelling like expensive cologne. However, the solidly masculine smell immediately makes Dunc want to vomit, and she turns her head to the side, taking deep breaths._

_Roman pulls her over to an empty kitchen stool and pushes her down. “Stay here,” he commands. “Stay here until I get back.”_

_“No. I just want to go home,” Dunc pleads. “Please, Roman. Just let me go home.”_

_“It won’t take long,” he says, working to keep the edge from his voice. “I just need to do something, and then I’ll drive you home.” He squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll get you home,” he says, hardly able to look her in the eye. “I promise. Just stay here a minute, Dunc. Please.”_

_Dunc nods dumbly, her big, blue eyes scared and wounded._

_Roman feels a strange stabbing in his heart, as he looks at her sitting there in his letterman jacket, trying to shrink down into herself. Fuck. He needs to get her out of here. Get her home to her parents and her brother -- to people who can look after her and make her feel safe. Only first he has to fucking kill Ron Connington and every asshole who was part of this godsdamn bet._

_Dunc closes her eyes and lets her head fall down into her hands. She has surprisingly graceful hands -- long, tapered fingers. They are still shaking, and suddenly Roman is overcome with the urge to put his arms around the girl -- to hold her tightly against him._

_Shit, no way. No freaking way. He can’t do that. She is Dunc Duncan, for Gods’ sake. They aren’t friends. They don’t even like each other. Not only that, she has just been assaulted and humiliated. She won’t welcome anything physical from him._

_Shaking his head, he settles for awkwardly patting Dunc on the shoulder. “It’s going to be OK,” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m going to fix this.” And then, without waiting for her to reply, he stalks out of the kitchen, letting the door slam behind him._

_“Cut!”_

**~~~**

Brienne let out a heavy breath, keeping her head in the cradle of her hands for a few quiet moments. _“That was good,”_ she thought. _“That was really, really good -- especially for a first take.”_ She hadn’t been doing this acting gig for all that long, but she knew when she had nailed a scene. And she had definitely nailed that scene.

Her head hurt from all of the crying and shaking, but the whole scene had felt fluid -- natural. She hadn’t been aware of acting at all. And Jaime -- well, Jaime had been incredible. For one hot minute, she had forgotten that he was, in fact, Jaime Lannister and not Roman Webber. She shook her head, a strange, buzzing sensation washing over her body.

Gods, she felt high -- or at least what she assumed being high would feel like.

Grinning, the director walked over to where she still sat at the counter of the set, Jaime following closely at his heels.

“That was insanely good,” the director praised. He looked between the two of them in disbelief. “Seriously, kids. I’m not exaggerating. We need to shoot a few retakes in order to get different camera angles, but that was fantastic. Keep it up, and we’ll be out of here early today.”

Brienne smiled proudly, chancing a glance at Jaime to see if he were feeling the same high. However, Jaime didn’t bother making eye contact.

“Yeah. Do I have time to get something to drink before we roll?” Jaime asked, his voice bored and arrogant.

“Um … sure,” the director replied, puzzled, not used to his praise going unacknowledged, especially by upstart, teenage rookies. He frowned at Jaime and then gestured at Brienne’s red, puffy eyes and tear ravaged face. “Go ahead and take 20. We need to get Brienne’s face back to normal before we roll again.”

Jaime snorted. “Yeah. Good luck with that.” He gave Brienne a bemused, smugly-smiling once over, his gaze lingering on her battered face. And suddenly all of Brienne’s heady delight at nailing the scene disintegrated. She felt her cheeks infuse with heat and unconsciously brought her hand up to cover half of her face.

It didn’t matter that she had owned that scene. It didn’t matter how good she had been. Jaime Lannister had opened his mouth, and instantly Brienne felt about two feet tall.

Jaime raised his eyebrows at her and gave his patented smirk, as if daring her to say something; but she couldn’t get her mouth to work.

When she remained quiet, he shrugged and went off to find coffee.

Once Jaime was out of earshot, the director turned to Brienne, noticing the hot flush of her face and her too-wide gaze. “He didn’t mean it,” the director tried to excuse, but Brienne only shook her head. He tried again, patting her on the shoulder. “Seriously, Brienne. You two were freaking fantastic together. You kids have some kind of crazy chemistry between you.”

“Lucky me,” Brienne muttered darkly and jumped off of the kitchen stool to head to make-up.

**~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

Brienne checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time since arriving on set; however there were no messages -- just the normal newsfeed updates and notifications from friends.

_Blast and damn it to all seven hells!_

Groaning in frustration, she ran a hand over her tired face.

She had awoken that morning -- way, way too early that morning -- to an ended call from Jaime. Frantically, she had tried to piece together what had happened. Had her phone dropped the call while they slept? Had Jaime hung up? Had they come for him? Was he already in surgery?

Brienne had thought about texting him but figured that, if Jaime weren’t in surgery already, he was more than likely being prepped to go under the knife.

Amputation was a major event wasn’t it? They probably had to do a great deal of preparation. Certainly they would have to mark the hand that was to be amputated so there would be no mistakes made in the operating room. She had seen that once in a medical drama. Grimly she pictured the doctors drawing a circle around Jaime’s arm with a black sharpie, marking how much of the wrist to keep -- a literal “cut here” line.

Brienne shuddered. _Gods! Poor, poor Jaime. How was he even coping?_ The whole thing made Brienne slightly nauseous; and she couldn’t quite shake the nervous energy that coursed through her, as she stumbled into the shower.

Letting the hot water pound on her tense shoulders, Brienne’s head was a jumble of thoughts: the absurdity of the fact that Jaime had called her; the second-hand anxiety that she felt for him going into surgery; the slight guilt that she couldn’t shake over the fact that he was going through so much and had reached out to her because she already thought the worst of him; the worry over some of the dark things he had said; and the underlying fear that this had all been some sort of sick joke to make her look stupid. Christ, it was enough to put her off of her breakfast, and usually nothing put Brienne off of her breakfast. However, the burning uncomfortableness in her stomach was making her too sick to even contemplate food.

She should call him. Call him and leave a message sending her best for a good outcome and a speedy return to health.

 _Shit -- a good outcome? Christ, Brienne!_ But then what did one say to one’s former enemy who had spilled all his fears and worries and insecurities in a late-night phone call?

No, no, maybe she shouldn’t call at all. Perhaps Jaime was embarrassed that he had called her, and it would cause him even more anxiety if she called and asked about the operation. They didn’t really have a phone call type of relationship, anyway. Hells, they didn’t really have any type of relationship.

But then, he had called her. Called _**her**_ \-- out of everyone in the universe that he could have called.

Damn -- it was an impossible situation. But she couldn’t just do nothing, could she? He had reached out to her. It was only fair that she check on him, even if they didn’t like each other.

Perhaps she should text?

Yes, a text would be good -- not too intrusive or demanding. A text didn’t carry the same urgency and intimacy as a phone call did. It was just a text. He could ignore it, if he wanted to.

Yes, yes -- she would text him. Only -- what should she say?

 ** ~~Hey, Jaime. Great talking to you last night.~~** _Oh shit, no. Come on, Brienne._

 ** ~~Sending all my good thoughts to you.~~** _Damn it -- what good were thoughts? He was losing a hand. A hand, Brienne! Your thoughts, good or otherwise, won’t do shit._

 **You are strong enough. I know you are. Please check-in when things calm down.** _Yes, that would do. Simple - to the point. Not too familiar. Not too demanding._

Brienne stared down at the typed message and, before she could talk herself out of it, pressed send.

There. It was done. There was no going back.

And now there was nothing left for her to do but wait and hope for the best.

Sighing, Brienne pulled a stocking cap over her wet hair and grabbed her coat and a slightly greenish banana from the bowl on the counter, just in case she got hungry later. It was going to be a long-ass day -- a hell of a long-ass day. And yet, she thought grimly, watching as her right hand reached up to deftly lock the door of her trailer, Jaime’s day was sure to be much, much longer.

**~~~~~~~**

Brienne didn’t actually end up eating the banana, although with all the stops and starts of the day’s shooting schedule, she had plenty of opportunity. However, she found that she just couldn’t shake the cloud of anxiety and dread that had enveloped her the minute she had awoken to that ended call. It was probably just her fight or flight instinct kicking in. That’s what her previous therapist had called it -- that painfully restless feeling in her stomach and legs that never seemed to go away. Actually, if she were being completely honest, Brienne could use a good fight right at the moment -- work out some of that restlessness and distraction. Unfortunately there were no sword fights on the filming docket for the day.

They were shooting exterior shots -- mostly of her and Gendry on horseback or tramping their way through dense forestland of the “planet Oighir,” as Arianne and Ser Gareth the Grey, set off to rescue an imprisoned Lady Aemma and Ser Brynden.

Brienne had been working with Gendry these last few weeks, as Robb was off shooting his own storyline with Jeyne Westerling, the actress who played Aemma. Initially, it was strange not working with Robb, since so many of the current season’s story arcs had revolved around the growing relationship between Arianne and Ser Brynden. However, Brienne barely had a chance to miss the man, since Robb had taken to texting and calling her a billion times a day. And it was nice to shoot with Gendry for a change -- nice to shoot some outdoor, action shots.

Usually, Brienne loved outdoor shoots. There was something about being in the natural world that gave an authenticity to her performance that Brienne found difficult to replicate when acting in front of a green screen. And the woods of Winterfell were currently gorgeous, covered in a white, crystalline dusting of snow. However for once, Brienne couldn’t enjoy being out in the elements, so preoccupied was she with her phone that she didn’t even notice her surroundings.

“Expecting a phone call?” Gendry asked, coming up behind Brienne where she sat on a fallen log, phone in hand. The director had given them a break, in order to set up the next shot.

Brienne colored. “Just waiting on some news.”

“It must be important. I think you’ve checked that phone a thousand times this morning.” Gendry smiled one of his dazzling smiles and sat down next to her, bumping against her shoulder fondly.

“Yeah, a … friend … is in the hospital. In surgery. I’m just waiting to hear …” She broke off with an exhale. She liked Gendry. Aside from being very nice to look at, he was a damn good actor -- and funny and kind to boot. However, she didn’t feel like getting into the whole mess of the situation with anyone. She didn’t really understand it herself and would have no luck trying to explain it to other people.

“Ah, Jaime Lannister,” Gendry said. And when Brienne looked at him surprised, he added, “Robb brought me up to speed on everything. He was hoping that I’d keep my eye on you, in case you needed support or anything.”

Brienne stiffened, setting her phone face down in her lap. “That’s ridiculous. As if I need minding.”

Gendry shook his head. “No, no. He just knew you were upset. I think he’s just disappointed that he doesn’t have any scenes with you right now. He just wants to be there for you.”

Brienne snorted. “Robb already calls and texts me a million times a day to check-in. Surely he doesn't need to recruit you as well.”

“He’s just worried, Brienne. I can tell him to back off -- that you’re fine.” Gendry held up his hands in a placating gesture. After a moment of silence, he leaned forward and nudged her side. “Frankly, I’m a bit surprised. I didn’t think you were close to Lannister. I definitely remember reading some stories back in the day about your … uh … well, I think they described it as a hate/hate relationship.”

“We’re not close,” Brienne said flatly, her guilt making her defensive. “Still, that doesn’t mean I wish him ill.”

“No, of course not,” Gendry said calmly.

“He almost died,” Brienne protested, suddenly feeling even more annoyed. “I’d have to be incredibly unfeeling not to be upset.”

“No, no,” Gendry soothed. "You're right."

“And he’s in surgery, or he was in surgery. I just want to know that he will be OK. That’s it. That’s all. I’m not going to break down or anything, if that’s what you and Robb are worried about.”

“Yes, of course,” Gendry replied. “I’m sorry I said anything.”

After a few moments of strained silence, Gendry reached over and patted Brienne on the knee. “Listen, Brienne, like you said, it’s none of my business; but I’m sure everything will be OK. He’s a Lannister. Lannisters always seem to land on their feet. That’s a pretty sure bet.”

“Yeah,” Brienne muttered, checking her phone one last time. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Gendry was probably right. Jaime would be fine. Of course, he would be fine. He probably had the best doctors money could buy. He was sure to be in the very best of hands.

_Hands?_

_Christ -- really, Brienne?_

She huffed out a bitter laugh at the irony of her thoughts, and Gendry looked at her strangely.

“Sorry,” Brienne excused, and then, with a determined smile, she turned off her phone and rose from her perch on the fallen tree. “Come on. They must be ready for us by now.” She sighed, brushing off the snow from her backside. “Besides, my ass is completely frozen. Here’s hoping I don’t fall off the bloody horse again.”

**~~~~~~**

Three days later, after Brienne had sent five more texts, left two voicemails, and received exactly zero responses, she gave up.

She knew from news reports that Jaime’s operation had gone as planned and that Jaime was still in the hospital recovering. Apparently, he just hadn’t felt the need to actually inform her of any of this.

_Message fucking received._

So that’s how Jaime wanted to play it - just pretend the phone call had never happened. Go back to ignoring each other’s existence.

Well, fine. That was just fine by her. Preferable, really, if she were being honest. Brienne certainly did not need Jaime Lannister back in her life. Didn’t need him at all.

Only … she couldn’t help but feel slighted that he had damn well called her in the first place and now he couldn’t be bothered to respond to a stupid text.

It was just like Jaime, though, to drop a bunch of shit on her and then disappear. Just like the old days, when Brienne would be tricked into thinking the boy was marginally human, only to have him prove her wrong time and time again.

Well, hells -- there was nothing she could do about it, was there? If Jaime didn’t want to talk to her, that was his prerogative. Totally within his rights.

She just wished he hadn’t shared all of those dark thoughts with her. Hadn’t said such worrisome things. Friend or not, after that late night phone call, Brienne couldn’t help but be concerned for Jaime’s mental health. Couldn’t help but be concerned that Jaime was struggling -- emotionally, as well as physically. But what could she do when he refused to even acknowledge her concern?

Nothing. That’s what she could do.

No, at this point, all Brienne could do was to hope for the best. Hope that Jaime could persevere through this massive trauma. Hope that he had people who would help him with the challenges he was sure to face. Hope that, like Gendry had said, Jaime would land on his feet -- even though the golden Lion of Lannisport now had one foot less on which to land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know -- I’m so sorry. But one phone call does not a friendship make. As a wise woman once said, “You need trust to have a truce.” And these two have years and years of distrust to work through. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience. And thank you for all of your support and encouragement. I can’t tell you how much it buoys me as I sit here cursing at my computer, trying to make all of these jagged pieces come together into a connected narrative. They are all connected. I promise. ; )


	7. Sleep to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime adjusts to life post-accident. Brienne has a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are vague mentions of suicide in this chapter. Nothing overt, but mind how you go, if this is a trigger.

**“Sleep to Dream”**

**Fiona Apple**

**“I tell you how I feel, but you don’t care**   
**I say tell me the truth, but you don’t dare**   
**You say love is a hell you cannot bear,**   
**And I say give me mine back and then go there, for all I care.”**

**~~~~~~**

**Five Weeks Later:**

It had been weeks since Jaime had come home from the hospital. He still looked rough, as if he had been on the losing end of a bear fight; but he was healing physically -- the bruises on his face fading to a slightly discolored puffiness. However, it was not Jaime’s face that Tyrion was worried about.

Since his return from the hospital, Jaime had spent most of his time on the sitting room couch or locked up in his bedroom, categorically refusing to go out in public.

The cadre of photographers that had been haunting the sidewalks outside of Jaime’s luxury flat ever since the accident had dwindled down to a random pap or two, after it was clear that Jaime Lannister wasn’t going to be making any public appearances in the foreseeable future.

“Good riddance,” Tyrion said, looking down at the mostly empty street. He turned to his brother, ready to loft a witty quip about the lack of blood in the water making the sharks disinterested, but found that Jaime was staring vacantly at the television, his eyes empty and dull.

But then that was Jaime these days -- empty and dull. Occasionally, if Tyrion looked closely enough, there were glimpses of the old Jaime. However, often, Jaime was just -- well, he was zoned out, or sullen, or charmingly both. There had been many a time when Tyrion could barely get Jaime to say a word. Many a time when that word was a bitchy comment or a dismissive “fuck off.” Yet, despite Jaime’s campaign to freeze him out, Tyrion was bound and determined to see Jaime through his recovery, essentially moving into Jaime’s flat and taking over all caregiver duties. He took Jaime’s long silences and sour demeanor in stride, always giving Jaime shit right back -- reminding him of what his life used to be like -- what Jaime used to be like.

Sometimes it seemed to work. Mostly it didn’t.

“Did Cersei call back?” Tyrion tried. If anything could crack through that dull, opaque shell that Jaime encased himself in it was usually the mention of Cersei.

Jaime looked startled. “What?”

“Did she call?” Tyrion repeated. “Didn’t she say that she would try again when she had her next break from filming?”

After the amputation, Cersei had almost immediately retreated back to Dorne where her movie was shooting. She had insisted that she couldn’t take any more time off without holding up the production schedule. And honestly, Tyrion hadn’t put up much of a protest. All things being equal, it was probably a blessing that she had left.

Cersei had absolutely no idea what to do with Jaime. No idea how to handle him now that he was depressed and wounded and angry. She had visited him once -- only once -- after the amputation, purposefully avoiding looking at his arm, her face stretched thin, her smile false and friable. Even more surprising, she had been uncharacteristically quiet that visit, letting Tyrion prattle on to fill the silence. And prattle on he had, trying to bridge the awkwardness between Cersei’s terrified revulsion and Jaime’s numb defeat. It had been uncomfortable -- and sad -- and incredibly painful; and Tyrion had breathed a sigh of relief once Cersei had left, and Jaime was back in the anesthetized wasteland of pharmaceuticals.

Cersei had called Tyrion later that evening, her voice pleading and desperate, telling him that the producers had called and that she was needed back on set immediately. She had begged Tyrion to make Jaime understand -- please make Jaime understand. It was out of her control. She wouldn’t leave under normal circumstances, but this was her big break. Jaime would understand. Surely he would understand. He was an actor, after all.

She had left that night, catching a red eye out of King’s Landing.

She had left without saying goodbye to Jaime.

If Jaime had been hurt by her immediate retreat, he hadn’t shown it outwardly. But then he hadn’t shown much outwardly, except for the occasional flash of anger.

“Jaime?” Tyrion tried again, when too much time had lapsed without an answer.

“She left a message,” Jaime replied, shrugging, not tearing his eyes from the television.

“Ah, that’s too bad,” Tyrion said tiredly. “Shame that you missed her. I think it would be good for you to talk to her.”

Jaime looked at him strangely. “Why?”

“Jaime, I think it would be good for you to talk to someone.”

“I talk to you.”

“Someone besides me. And we don’t talk, really. Mostly it’s just you ignoring me.”

Jaime sighed. “Cersei … she doesn’t want to talk, really. She … doesn’t know what to say. I don’t either.”

“Gods, just tell her how you are doing,” Tyrion said, not able to hide his exasperation. “How you are feeling. It’s really not that difficult.”

“Drop it Tyrion.” There was a warning in Jaime’s voice, but Tyrion ignored it.

“You should be talking to someone, Jaime. Someone. Anyone. Dr. Qyburn said that it is important to process all this. He suggested a professional -- someone trained to help people who have experienced a … loss.”

Jaime swiveled his head, his eyes blazing. “A loss? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Fine,” Tyrion said, his exasperation quickly turning into frustration. “An amputation? Is that better?”

“I don’t need to talk to a fucking professional, Tyrion,” Jaime growled. “I’ve processed this. I’ve processed the shit out of it. I used to have two hands. Now I have one. What is there to talk about?”

“How about the fact that all you do is sit there on that godsdamn couch all day long. Sit there doing nothing,” Tyrion said testily, his temper finally breaking. “How about the fact that you don’t eat. That you barely sleep. That you haven’t showered since you got home from the hospital.” He was riled up now. “How about the fact that you have fired every damn physical therapist who has had the unfortunate luck of being assigned to you or the fact that you’ve fired all of the help that I’ve arranged for you. How about the fact that you’ve avoided everyone’s calls - Father’s, your agent’s, Addam’s, now Cersei’s. How about the fact that you won’t even look at your stump. That you completely avert your eyes -- as if you think that, if you don’t actually look at it, it isn’t actually there.”

Jaime’s head jolted up.

“Yes, I’ve noticed, brother. How could I not? You avoid it at all costs. Now I’m no expert, but the very fact that you can’t look at the damn thing makes me think that you haven’t fucking processed it.” He shook his head, his voice softening. “You need help, Jaime. You need some -- some professional help.”

“You’ll stop now, if you know what’s good for you, Tyrion.” Jaime’s voice was a low growl.

Tyrion laughed. “If I know what’s good for me? What are you going to do, brother? Hit me? Fire me? Refuse to talk to me?”

“Stop.”

“Jaime, look. I know that it’s a major change, a major loss,” Tyrion pleaded.

“You don’t know anything.”

“Fuck, man. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a lifetime of experience being ‘broken’ -- of having to adapt to a world that wasn’t made for me.”

“It’s not the same, Tyrion.”

“Why? Because I was born this way? Because I was never perfect to begin with? Are you listening to yourself, here?”

“I don’t need this,” Jaime muttered, grabbing his crutch with his good hand and hauling himself up unsteadily.

“Then what do you need, Jaime? What do you need, if you don’t need therapy, or physio, or food, or sleep? Please fucking tell me what you need!”

Jaime turned around, his face empty and cold. “I need you to shut the hell up,” he said flatly and then hobbled off down the hall to his bedroom.

The door to Jaime’s bedroom slammed, and Tyrion let out a sigh. He turned to the wet-bar, pouring himself a large tumblerful of whiskey and downing it in three swallows. He poured another.

“You’re not your brother’s keeper,” he reminded himself for the millionth time, rubbing his face tiredly.

Crossing the room, he collapsed back on the couch, surveying the mess of his surroundings. Jaime had fired the cleaner three weeks ago, and Tyrion hadn’t hired a replacement yet. _Gods, what a disaster. What a fucking mess of a disaster._

Sighing, Tyrion picked up the remote and turned off the television, letting his head fall back against the couch and closing his eyes. Slowly he felt the warmth of the whiskey move its way through his bloodstream -- felt the effects of the alcohol start to dull the edge of his frustration.

_Christ things were bad._

He had no idea how to help Jaime.

_How did one help someone who didn’t want to be helped?_

He couldn’t force Jaime into anything, could he? He flashed to the mental image of Gregor Clegane, Tywin’s taciturn, giant of a body guard, holding Jaime in a headlock, while a psychiatrist held up Rorschach ink blots.

_No, that wouldn’t work._

What the hells should he do, then? What the hells could he do?

Shit, he better figure it out soon, before it was too late, and he lost Jaime for good.

Tyrion looked down at the crystal tumbler in his hand, contemplating the intricate glass-work for a long moment, before shaking his head in exasperation. He let out a ragged laugh to the empty room. “Damn, I need to lay off of the whisky,” he muttered, taking another large mouthful. “Makes me maudlin.”

**~~~~~~**

Jaime eased himself down on his bed, wincing as his bad leg caught in the bunched, dirty quilt, and a current of pain shot down his leg and into his foot.

 _Fucking Tyrion._ Gods, why wouldn’t people just leave him the hells alone?

Everyone wanted him to talk. To talk about his injury and his recovery and his godsdamn feelings. Hells -- when would they realize that he didn’t want to talk? What good would talking even do? Talking wouldn’t bring back his hand or make things magically OK.

If Tyrion was hoping for some cheesy, kum ba yah moment where Jaime would suddenly realize that life was still precious and worth living, he better not hold his breath. Real life wasn’t a morally clichéd, badly-acted, Hallmark movie. And Jaime should know -- he’d acted in enough of them.

Besides, they could protest until they were blue in the face, but no one really wanted to talk about it. Cersei certainly didn’t. Aside from the odd inquiry into his recovery thrown out quickly at the beginning of each phone call, Cersei spent the rest of their conversations purposely talking circles around it.

Father had given Jaime’s arm a cursory glance and then had called a million specialists to start shopping around for a prosthetic. “The best that money can buy,” he had assured Jaime. “You won’t even know that you are missing a hand.”

But Jaime would know. He would know. Even though he refused to look at the bloody thing, he knew. It was a part of him now. A part of him that he hated. He didn’t need to talk to anybody to understand that.

Besides, this whole talking thing was just an exercise in humiliation and self-loathing. Jaime had already exposed himself far too much the last time he had “talked about it.” He shuddered, remembering the late night phone call to Brienne Tarth.

_Shit. What had possessed him to call her?_

The infection, most likely. He had to have been off his head.

Jaime sighed, letting his eyes fall shut, as a familiar wave of embarrassed regret washed over him. He still couldn’t quite believe that he had called Tarth -- had called her and had cried to her like a fucking baby -- told her how scared he was.

Christ, he was pathetic. Pathetic and sad and weak. If only he could go back in time and stop himself from picking up that damned phone.

At least he had put an end to it before it could get really bad. Brienne had tried to contact him -- worried about his ability to cope, no doubt, after his infantile display. However, Jaime had refused to acknowledge her efforts. He just wanted to forget the whole thing -- forget that he had exposed himself so pathetically to her.

Luckily, after her last text had gone unread, Brienne had taken the hint, and Jaime hadn’t heard from her since.

Maybe it was good that he had chosen her, of all people, to expose himself to. They had gone ten, long years without talking; they could easily go another ten.

No, no. Jaime was finished talking. He was tired. So fucking tired. Tired of the pain and the heaviness and the dullness and exhaustion. Tired of the nausea and the headaches and the pain pills and reflux. Tired of helpful people and their well wishes and their worried glances and their constant, incessant talking.

Gods he was so damn tired of the talking.

What he wouldn’t give for it all just to stop.

**~~~~~~**

**Two Weeks Later:**

Brienne ran a distracted hand through her hair, as she paced her trailer.

It was six thirty in the morning, and she was due in make-up at eight sharp. They were shooting the big Arianne-Brynden reunion scene today, and she would be filming with Robb again, after weeks apart. It was going to be a big day, an extremely emotional scene -- the first kiss for their characters -- the first kiss for Brienne on this series. However, that was not the current cause of her anxiety.

She had awoken last night -- well, this morning, really -- in a cold sweat. Aside from that recurring nightmare of showing up to set sans clothing, Brienne rarely remembered her dreams. However, this nightmare had been incredibly real. So real, in fact, that, upon awakening, she had been forced to run to her tiny cubicle of a bathroom and throw up -- the vivid details of the dream replaying over and over in her mind, as she violently heaved up her stomach.

In the dream, she and Jaime were riding through the forests of Winterfell, trying to find Lady Aemma who had been kidnapped and imprisoned. They were deep in the darkness of the wood, when they had been set upon by a band of outlaws.

Brienne had immediately pulled her sword, slashing through the fray to try to get to Jaime, who, she knew, was unarmed. However, her sword wouldn’t work. No matter how hard she hit, the blade simply glanced off the shoulders of the men.

She heard Jaime scream -- an inhuman, blood-curdling sound, and looked up in time to see his face contort, as his hand was sliced off.

Panicked, she shouldered her way through the men, grabbing the bleeding, sobbing Jaime and dragging him with her towards the high bridge in the distance. She knew that if she could just get Jaime to the bridge, she could save him.

The armed men pursued her, but she was fast, barreling through the underbrush and murmuring comforting words to Jaime to try to keep him from passing out.

When they reached the bridge, the outlaws disappeared, and Brienne settled Jaime against the low bridgewall to tend to his wound. She reached under her jerkin to rip cloth from her undershirt to make a makeshift tourniquet. However, when she turned back to Jaime, he was gone.

She stood up, looking around wildly and saw that Jaime was standing on the bridgewall facing into the wind, teetering above the drop.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“Dying,” he replied, looking at her sadly.

“You can’t die. You have to live. You are Jaime Lannister. There are none like you.”

He had looked at her and then at his stump which was still spouting red blood. “Jaime Lannister is gone,” he said. “I am gone.” And then he smiled a sad smile and jumped.

Brienne hadn’t gone back to sleep after that, her mind tossing and turning, as she mentally picked over everything Jaime had said to her in that late night conversation before his amputation -- every dark word and laden subtext.

Surely he wouldn’t do anything rash. Surely not. Not Jaime. He had just been scared and depressed about the amputation. It would take time to get used to it. And it had been weeks since the operation. Weeks! He was probably well on his way to recovery by now. She was blowing things completely out of proportion. Of course she was.

If only she could be sure, though. If only he had replied to her bloody texts -- let her know that he was OK.

If something happened to him, it would be her fault, wouldn’t it? Her fault for not trying harder -- for not contacting anyone.

But then, Jaime had shared those private thoughts with her in confidence. Would it really be right for her to contact anyone? Break his private counsel?

Gods, the whole thing made her sick to her stomach. But the dream had been so real -- so godsdamn real. What if Jaime…?

Damn it. She was going to have to call, wasn’t she? She would get no peace until she did. Besides, Jaime already hated her. It was not like his opinion of her would get any worse if she breached his privacy. Let him go ahead and hate her. He had for fifteen years -- why change anything now?

She waited until seven before shooting off a text to Sam, asking if he had Jaime’s brother’s number.

Sam texted her back at 7:15. He had ended up having to go to Margaery for Tyrion’s number, but he had gotten it, and sent it on to Brienne, along with a heart-eyed emoji and a plea to get together the next time she was in town.

And now Brienne would have to do it. She would have to call Tyrion and tell him about her worries. She would have to interfere in Jaime’s life.

She took a deep breath and pushed “call.”

**~~~~~~**

“He called you?” Tyrion’s voice sounded incredulous, although his demeanor throughout the whole of the conversation had been one of incredulity. Of course he remembered her, he had said in the beginning when she had stammered her way through a greeting. However, it was clear that he was completely flummoxed as to why she was calling.

“Yes,” Brienne replied.

“He called you?” Tyrion repeated.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Brienne tried to explain. “But he said a few things that gave me some pause, and that’s the real reason I’m calling. I just wanted to make sure that he’s getting …”

“He called _you_?” Tyrion interrupted. “The night before his amputation?”

“Yes, Tyrion, I’ve said that already,” Brienne repeated impatiently. _This was not going well at all._

“Why would he call you?”

Brienne sighed. _Seven hells, she just wanted to make sure Jaime was getting the help he needed. She hadn’t counted on a full-on interrogation._

“I asked him the same thing. I mean we hadn’t spoken in ten years. I think he just wanted someone to distract him, keep his thoughts from the amputation.”

“But why _you_?”

“Who knows?”

_Should she be offended at Tyrion’s disbelief? Probably not. The whole thing was rather unbelievable. She’d have never believed it, herself, if it hadn’t happened to her._

“He said something about me already thinking the worst of him or some such nonsense,” she explained. “But that wasn’t the thing that concerned me.” She paused, trying to find the right words without revealing too much of Jaime’s private thoughts. “Tyrion, Jaime was worried that his career would be over -- that his life would be over with his hand gone. It seemed to me that he felt like his entire identity was wrapped up in … well, I guess in bodily perfection and that he was terrified that Jaime Lannister wouldn’t exist, if he were anything less than physically perfect.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said despondently. “That sounds about right.”

“I really think he needs to talk to a professional, if he isn’t already -- someone who can help with trauma and depression,” Brienne said carefully. She was crossing a line, she knew. But if something happened to Jaime because she hadn’t reached out to make sure he was getting help, she would never forgive herself.

“I agree,” Tyrion sighed. “The problem is that I can’t make him do anything. I can’t even make him talk to me. He’s got a wall around him the size of … well, the Wall.” He huffed out a laugh. “I’m impressed you managed to breach it.”

The line went silent for a moment, before Tyrion continued. “Do you know what I did the night before Jaime’s amputation?”

The question was rhetorical, and Brienne waited quietly.

“I went down to the dive bar across the street from the hospital and got completely shitfaced. Really, really plastered. At some point, I passed out and didn’t wake up until the operation was over, and Jaime was in recovery.”

Brienne made a noncommittal noise.

“I had meant to stay with Jaime that night, but he refused to let me. Actually, shouted me out of his room, if you can believe it. Threw a vase at my head. He didn’t want to talk to me. He didn’t want to talk to my father or to Cersei or to the nurse -- or even to the poor chaplain whom the nurse called in, fearing that an exorcism might be in order.” Tyrion’s laugh sounded more angry than anything. “But after all that, all of his shouting and vitriol and rage, he apparently called you. He was just fine talking to you.”

“He shouted a bit at me, if it makes you feel any better,” Brienne admitted.

“It does, thank you,” Tyrion said dryly. He caught his breath, thinking. “Brienne,” he said tentatively. “What if you encouraged him to see a therapist?”

“He won’t even return my texts, Tyrion,” Brienne argued. “Besides, you see him every day, and he likes you…” Tyrion made a noise of protest. “Well, he likes you more than he likes me. Honestly, I’d think you’d have a much better chance of reaching him talking to him face-to-face.”

“What if you came here, though? What if you spoke to him face-to-face?” Tyrion couldn’t keep the sudden excitement from his voice. Maybe this would work. Maybe Jaime just needed a shock to his system.

“What? No, no, Tyrion. I’m in Winterfell -- in the middle of shooting a television series.”

“You must have days off.”

“Tyrion, I haven’t seen Jaime in ten years. I have absolutely no sway over him.”

“I would have thought that too,” Tyrion agreed, “but he called you, Brienne. He shared his fears with you. He opened up to you.”

“But he closed right back down again,” Brienne argued. “He didn’t even let me know how the operation went. Hasn’t even read my texts.”

“This could work,” Tyrion cried, ignoring Brienne’s protests. “You come here. Spend some time with Jaime. Convince him to steady on -- to see a therapist, to go to PT, to bathe…”

“Wait ...to bathe?”

“Yes, I’m afraid Jaime is in a bit of a funk right now -- quite a literal funk. Don’t worry though, I’ll light one of those scented candles when you come and visit.”

“Tyrion, I’m not coming to visit. I can’t. I’m shooting. Besides, Jaime and I have never gotten along.”

Tyrion clapped his hand down on his thigh. “I remember!” he shouted gleefully. “I remember how you two fought all the damn time. That’s what he needs. Someone to challenge him -- to call him out on his bullshit. Not me -- he’s used to me and has absolutely no interest in impressing me.”

“He has no interest in impressing me either,” Brienne cried, indignant.

“He admires you!”

“He hates me!”

“Potato, potahto,” Tyrion quipped. “Brienne, I really think this could work.”

“Look, Tyrion, I’d really like to help, but I’m in the middle of filming.”

“Surely you must have a few days free.”

“Tyrion...”

“I will pay for everything: your flight, your hotel. Hells I’ll even book you a massage. Think of it as a vacation.”

“Spending time with your brother is never a vacation.”

“Then think of it as community service. As an honorable quest. Bringing light into the darkness, like Ser Arianne of Dragonstone.”

“You watch the show?” Brienne asked, truly surprised.

“Yes, and you, my dear, are absolutely my favorite character. So much honor and goodness -- always on a noble quest to help those who can’t help themselves.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Now you’re just buttering me up to try to get your way. Very heavy-handed of you.”

“Well, I do have to make up for Jaime being one hand lighter now.”

“Stop.”

“Brienne, please.” Tyrion’s voice was tired and pleading. “I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what else to do. I’m so damned worried about him. He just …. He just needs someone to fight for him -- to convince him that he’s worth fighting for. Please, Brienne … please.”

Brienne sighed. _This was ridiculous. Ten years. Ten godsdamn years only to be pulled back into the Lannister orbit. Fuck it all. Why had she called? Why had she sent that thrice-damned plant?_ “Fine,” she conceded, her conscience finally getting the better of her. “I have four days off of shooting coming up on the twenty-sixth. Will that work?”

“Yes! Yes, that will…”

There was a knock on her trailer door, letting Brienne know that they were ready for her in make-up.

“Listen, Tyrion. I have to go to work. Text me the details of the flight and hotel arrangements, when you’ve made them. I’ll … I’ll try to clear my schedule.”

“Thank you,” Tyrion breathed out, his voice hoarse with gratitude. “Gods, thank you, Brienne.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Your brother is more likely to throw things at me than he ever is to listen to me.”

“Bring your sword,” Tyrion joked. “If he tries being an asshole, just start stabbing.”

Brienne laughed. “Gods, don’t tempt me.”

**~~~~~~**

_**Knights of the Seven Kingdoms** _

**Season Four, Episode 7: “Vows”**

**Scene 26. Take 1 A Mark**

**_“Rolling. Sound. Action!”_ **

_The scene opens with a long-shot of two figures struggling against a massive snowstorm. One figure is leaning heavily on the other, stumbling with every step._

_The camera zooms in and focuses on the grim and determined face of Ser Arianne of Dragonstone. She is dressed in leathers and a winter cloak, having abandoned her armor to the storm long ago. Her face is raw and wind-chapped, her hair a tangled mess. She is half dragging a wounded Ser Brynden who, along with Lady Aemma, has been injured in the prison break from Moat Cailin when they had misjudged the number of armed men guarding the cell. Ser Gareth and an unconscious Lady Aemma have ridden ahead on the rescue party’s only remaining horse, leaving Arianne and Ser Brynden to make it back to the spaceship on foot._

_Arianne’s face is set. Determined. She knows that she is fighting against time. The ship will have to take off before the storm dissipates, in order to avoid discovery. If the Mummers find them before they can make it back, a painful death will await them all. Lord Vargo Hoat is not known for his mercy._

_The camera tilts and zooms in for a close up. It focuses on a frozen drop of snow hanging suspended on Arianne’s split and bloody lip before widening again to show her struggle against the immense gravity of the storm._

_The wind is relentless, the icy blasts of snow and half-frozen rain stinging Arianne like shards of glass. However, she doesn’t wince. She has lost all feeling in her face, Brynden’s ragged breath in the crook of her neck providing the only warmth. Luckily, the cold has slowed his blood loss, although she can feel that he is weakening with every step._

_Brynden stumbles and falls to his knees, dragging Arianne down with him. He groans in pain, as Arianne struggles back up to her feet._

_“Leave me,” Brynden mutters, his eyes closing against the cutting snow._

_Arianne tries to haul him to his feet, but he resists, sitting back on his knees. He can’t go on. Four weeks chained to the wall of a prison cell have weakened him almost as much as the sword wound he took to his leg in the tussle._

_“Get up,” Arianne growls, jerking on his arm forcefully._

_“We will never make it,” Brynden protests. “We won't get there in time, with you having to practically carry me. Leave me be. Save yourself, Arianne.”_

_“Shut up,” she spits out, and with a mighty heave, hauls his body up and against her. She wraps his arm around her shoulders, grasping him around the waist and starts again the slow forward progression._

_Brynden sighs and tucks his face into her neck once more, willing his feet to shuffle forward._

_They continue on. One slow foot in front of the other._

_Soon Brynden can no longer feel his legs. A strange, sleepy warmth washes over him, making his thoughts dull and stupid._

_“Brynden! Ser Brynden!”_

_He hears Arianne’s voice in the sound of the wind and tries to answer it._

_Before he realizes it, they are stopping, his arm falling numbly from around her neck._

_She turns and grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him viciously. “Ser Brynden! Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”_

_“Yes,” he mumbles, his eyelids closed and heavy._

_Suddenly his face is full of snow, and he is choking. His eyes spring open, and he coughs, pushing desperately at Arianne’s hand to stop her attack._

_“Sorry,” she mutters, reaching up a gloved hand to brush the snow from his face. “You were fading. I needed to wake you up.”_

_His face is raw and bleeding. “No more,” he gasps. “No more. I'm awake.”_

_“See that you stay that way,” she says. She turns again, this time drawing his arm around her waist. She puts her free arm around his shoulders and shepherds him forward, back into the solid wall of the storm._

_“I don't think I can do this,” he argues weakly, trying to keep up with her stride._

_“You can and you will, Ser,” she says severely. “Consider it an order from your commander.”_

_He laughs at that. He is cold and wounded and most likely dying, but suddenly the humor of the situation is too much. “You are no longer my commander, my lady.”_

_“I’ll always be your commander, Ser Brynden,” she grits out._

_He gives half a laugh, half a groan. She is remarkable. The fact that she found him at all, buried below the Neck in a dank, crumbling dungeon is remarkable. The fact that she fought a half a dozen armed men to free him is remarkable. The fact that she is risking her life in a bloody great blizzard to get him back to the ship is remarkable. She is remarkable, and she is right. She will always be his commander._

_He can tell that she wants him to answer, if only to assure her of his lucidity, so he lifts his head out of the crook of her neck and brings his cold lips to her ear. “In more ways than you will ever know, my lady,” he says softly._

_She shivers, whether from the cold or from his words, he does not know, but the interaction warms him. He inhales, his numb hand creeping under her cloak and jerkin to grasp at the flesh of her waist. It is so cold, and he is dying -- she will surely forgive him this liberty._

_His clumsy fingers scrabble at her side above her hip, and she lets out a hiss._

_“What's this?”_

_He stops moving, his hand pawing at her clothes._

_“Gods, what's this, Arianne?” He pulls up her shirt, uncovering the long, blackened trench of a blaster wound._

_Shit. She is wounded. She is fucking wounded. He feels his heart beat painfully in his chest._

_The heat from the blaster has cauterized the wound, but it is deep. Much too deep._

_He turns to her, his face furious. “What the fuck are you doing? Why did you not ride on with Lady Aemma?”_

_“I’m fine. It's nothing,” she says, trying to free her shirt from his grasp. “We need to keep moving.”_

_“It’s not nothing, Arianne,” he argues. The cold leaves his blood, replaced by hot anger. “Gods, you stupid, stupid woman!”_

_“Watch yourself, Ser.” Her voice is cold, flinty._

_“No!” He pulls on her shoulder, stopping her. “Seven fucking hells, woman, you are far too competent to be this stupid! What were you thinking?”_

_“I was thinking that I could save you, you idiot! That is the whole reason that we came to this godsforsaken place. To save you!”_

_“By killing yourself? Why did you not ride back with Lady Aemma? Leave Ser Gareth with me?”_

_“Because I couldn't trust Gareth to get you to the ship. I was afraid that he would listen to your pitiful moaning and leave you to die. I could not risk it.”_

_“So you decided to risk yourself instead? You decided to haul me around like a sack of potatoes in a fucking blizzard, all the while concealing a sodding blaster wound?”_

_“I had to try,” she argued. “I had to try, Ser Brynden. I could never forgive myself if I did not. If I can just get you to the ship, get you to safety, it will be well worth it.”_

_“I don't want you dying for me, Arianne.” His voice is hoarse, desperate._

_“That is not your decision to make, Ser.”_

_Suddenly the fury is too much. The stupid, stupid woman. Does she not see? Does she not understand? He grabs her, pulling her by the shoulders until she faces him. “Do you not realize that my life is worth nothing without you?” He is the one shaking her now._

_“Ser Brynden...”_

_“No -- no,” he argues, overwhelmed by emotion. “If you save me and die in the process, I will not … I cannot …”_

_Suddenly he is pulling her towards him, kissing her with a passion so intense, it takes Arianne’s breath away. She is shocked, immobile at first, as frozen as the landscape around her, but then she kisses him back, twisting her gloved fingers into his snow-covered hair and pulling him closer. They are kissing and kissing, the sound of the storm fading against the sound of their mouths, their teeth._

_Moments later, she is the one to break the kiss, pulling away, leaving him gasping and breathless. “We are not dying, Ser.”_

_“What?” He is stunned, his mind slow to comprehend anything outside of their kiss, their embrace._

_“Neither of us is dying. We will get to the ship in time, even if I have to carry you the whole way.” Her eyes are flashing in her red, chapped face, the blue of her irises alight with a strange, frozen fire._

_“Arianne.”_

_“Start walking, Tully.” She pulls his arm around her again and moves forward._

_Hey obeys. Suddenly the storm doesn't seem so relentless, the cold so deep._

_“I will get us there,” she says simply. A promise. A vow._

_He believes her._

**_“Cut!”_ **

**~~~~~~**

After wardrobe had toweled the Foamite off of her clothes and hair, Brienne sat on a folding chair, drinking her coffee and waiting for the cameras to reset. It was going to be a hell of a long day. Green screen days were always long. Add fake snow and tortured, emotional drama into the mix, and she was sure she wouldn’t be getting back to her trailer until the early hours of the morning.

She yawned. Gods, she was exhausted. Truly exhausted. And now she didn’t even have the upcoming four days off from shooting to look forward to.

Robb had disappeared after the AD had called “cut” -- mumbling something about make-up touch-ups or costume changes or something. And so Brienne sat alone, drinking the bitter, lukewarm coffee that craft services had provided. She would have to remember to break out the breath mints before the second take. She had found out early in her career that there was nothing worse than the taste of coffee when kissing someone. Well, coffee and cigarettes, really. Truly foul. Oh, and there was that one time Jaime had eaten fish tacos with extra onions before a hot and heavy make-out scene between Dunc and Roman. That had been super fun too.

Brienne closed her eyes, letting her thoughts wander to her upcoming trip. It was stupid really. She shouldn’t have let Tyrion talk her into it. It wouldn’t end well. Nothing involving Jaime Lannister ever did.

Brienne was so zoned out that she almost didn’t hear Robb claim the chair next to her.

He cleared his throat, and she turned to him, noticing that his make-up and costume looked much the same as before he had left.

“Hey,” he said, not quite looking at her.

“Hey, yourself,” she replied, taking a gulp of coffee.

There was a moment of silence before he finally turned his gaze towards her. “Nice job.” He waved his hand towards where the cameras were setting up. “In the scene, I mean.”

Brienne nodded. “You too.”

“I hope I wasn’t too rough, there. With the er … kissing and such.”

Brienne looked at him, noticing the red, splotchy blush on his face. _Oh, did he think he had been too aggressive? Is that why he had run off after the cut? Why he was behaving so strangely?_ Brienne smiled at him fondly, trying to allay his doubts. “Not at all. It was good.” She elbowed him softly. “You were good.”

“Yeah,” he said with a bashful smile, his face flushing more. “So were you.”

“Hope the fans will be happy.”

“How could they not be?” Robb said, scratching his flushed neck. “I know I’m no Jaime Lannister, but I think we’re good together.”

Brienne snorted out a laugh at that, tipping her coffee cup in his direction in a mock toast. “Believe me, Stark, the fact that you aren’t Jaime Lannister is the most attractive thing about you.”

Robb laughed, some of his nervous embarrassment falling away. “You really don’t care for him, do you?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “He’s fine,” she excused.

“That’s not what Gendry says,” Robb protested, his smile slightly hopeful. “He says that the two of you never got along. Apparently when you worked together, you were renowned for your hate of each other.”

“Look,” Brienne explained, instantly defensive, despite her best efforts at indifference. Robb seemed to be taking some bizarre glee from the fact that she and Jaime didn’t like each other, and the whole thing was making her feel oddly guilty. “Like I told Gendry, I don’t wish Jaime ill. And you know that I was truly gutted to hear about his accident. You saw for yourself when I heard the news.” She shook her head. “It’s just that … well, Jaime and I just don’t have the best history. He was horrible to me when we worked together. Always criticizing, always making me doubt myself. Hells, you know as well as I do, Stark, this business makes you insecure enough. I certainly didn’t need Jaime Lannister to point out every one of my flaws and character deficiencies. I was quite good at pointing them out myself.”

“He sounds like a bastard,” Robb muttered under his breath. “Have you heard from him since his accident?”

“No,” Brienne sighed, taking another sip of coffee. “But I heard from his brother. Tyrion wants me to come out and visit Jaime at the end of this month.”

Robb huffed angrily. “I hope you told him where he could go.”

“I said I’d come.”

Robb looked at her incredulously, and Brienne again felt the need to justify herself. “How could I not? Jaime almost died.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he treated you like shit for five years.”

Brienne glanced at Robb, startled. He looked angry, his cheeks flushed again, but this time not from embarrassment. Just what had Gendry told him? “It’s fine,” she said dismissively.

“It’s not fine, Brienne. You’ve been looking forward to that break forever. And now you have to fly to King’s Landing to spend it with some asshole who treats you like…” He broke off, looking away from her.

“Robb?”

Where was all this even coming from? Robb had never met Jaime Lannister, as far as she knew. Didn’t know her history with him. And yet he seemed to be taking Tyrion’s request to visit Jaime as a personal offense.

Robb shook his head. “Sorry. Sorry. I know it’s none of my business. You can do what you like. I just don’t like seeing you taken advantage of.”

Brienne cocked her head and looked at him suspiciously. _What in the hells was going on here? Taken advantage of?_ Was she suddenly giving off damsel in distress vibes? Robb knew damn well that she could take care of herself. And she certainly didn’t need a 23 year old kid to be angry on her behalf.

“Listen,” she said, putting out a hand to cover his wrist. “Tyrion asked me to come as a favor. Jaime’s apparently not doing too well, and Tyrion thinks I can help. I think it’s a waste of time, myself. More than likely, I’ll get there, and Jaime will refuse to see me.”

“But then you’ll have wasted your break.”

“It’s OK,” Brienne said again, her voice light. “I’m fine with it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Robb replied resignedly. “But, it’s your call, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Brienne said firmly, releasing his arm. “It is my call.”

“I just hope …” Robb trailed off, and Brienne looked at him questionably. “Well, I just think that when people show you who they are, you should believe them.”

“Um … OK?” She looked at him, perplexed.

“OK,” he sighed. He got up from his chair and held out a hand to help her up.

Still confused, Brienne let him pull her up to standing, thankful that the conversation was over but concerned at the awkward tension that had settled heavily between them. They had to go back to shooting in a minute. They couldn’t be awkward and unsettled with each other or the scene wouldn’t work.

“Well, I guess duty calls, Stark,” Brienne joked lightly, trying to break the moment and return them to their easy comradery. “Which scenes are more difficult, do you think? The fighting or the making-out? And before you answer that.” She pulled a pack of Altoids out of her pocket and shook it exaggeratedly. “Do know I have mints. I promise not to assault you with my coffee breath.”

Robb shrugged and looked away, his cheeks coloring. “It wouldn’t matter, Brienne,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t matter at all.” Then, without waiting for her, he turned to take his mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those people wondering why a show about space knights would have swords, armor, and horses, I’m envisioning "Knights of the Seven Kingdoms" much like the series "Firefly" (and the movie "Serenity"). In "Firefly," the new world is an amalgam of futuristic space travel, East Asian culture, and the total chaos of the Wild West. People travel by spaceship, ride horses, use both revolvers and blasters, rob trains, etc. 
> 
> In "Knights," the seven knights zip around the kingdoms in a dilapidated spaceship but once on a particular planet or space station, resort to more accessible, medieval modes of transportation and weaponry. Totally bananas, I know -- but who wouldn’t want to watch that? ; )
> 
> Thanks again for all of the support that you have sent this fic. It's a strange time to be writing fanfiction. I often wonder if I should be writing it right now, when there is so much heaviness and pain in the world. Knowing that this ridiculous story is being read and enjoyed definitely helps to allay that anxiety. Thank you so much!


	8. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets a wake-up call.

**“Wake Up”**

**Arcade Fire**

**“Something filled up**   
**My heart with nothing**   
**Someone told me not to cry**   
**Now that I'm older**   
**My heart's colder**   
**And I can see that it's a lie”**

**~~~~~~**

**Two and a Half Weeks Later:**

The doorbell rang.

 _“Shit,”_ Jaime thought with a sigh. _“The latest physical therapist, no doubt. The one specializing in “adaptive occupational therapy” that the recovery center was sending over in the wake of the last PT’s firing --well, resignation really. Honestly, did it even matter, at this point?”_

In Jaime’s opinion, they were all crap, and, as the bloody patient in this horror show of a scenario, Jaime’s opinion was the only one that really mattered, despite what Tyrion claimed.

Why did Jaime need an “adaptive occupational therapist” anyway? It wasn’t like he needed to learn how to move his hand. He didn’t have a godsdamn hand anymore. And there was no way he was ready for any kind of prosthesis. His stump still hurt like all seven fucking hells. He wasn’t strapping anything on to it.

Besides, he was much too tired to deal with any of this therapy bullshit, adaptively occupational or otherwise. Truth be told, Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he had slept for more than an hour or two at a time. He tried. He really did. His doctor had sent him home with a prescription for some heavy duty sleeping pills -- the kind that were supposed to knock a person out for hours. But all they did was cause Jaime to dream. To dream of twisted metal and fire and burning flesh and bone saws. And so he stayed awake, his eyes filled with sand and his head filled with noise.

And now there would be even more noise, as yet another supercilious twat lectured him on the fact that he needed to sleep in order to heal. Lectured him on how it was time for him to “accept this new normal” and “get on with the business of living.” He had only lost a hand, for gods’ sake. There were people who were far worse off. And really, it wasn’t fair to the poor bastard who had died in the crash, was it now? Bet that guy would give anything to be in Jaime’s position.

The doorbell rang again.

_Fuck._

“Tyrion!” Jaime shouted, letting his tired head fall back on the couch. “Tyrion! Door!”

The ringing petered out but not before a knock sounded - sharp and abrupt.

 _Godsdamn it! Where the fuck had Tyrion gone?_ This was just like him -- making the appointment without consulting Jaime and then disappearing in order to avoid the inevitable fallout.

“Tyrion!” Jaime yelled again.

Another knock, this time longer and sharper.

_Gods be good._

With a groan, Jaime struggled up from the couch, wincing as he put too much weight on his bad leg.

 _All seven hells on a cracker!_ He should just refuse to open the damn door. He was only going to end up sending the poor sod away anyway. Why even bother letting him in?

But the knock sounded again, and, groaning, Jaime grabbed his crutch with his good hand and slowly hobbled to the foyer. He fumbled with the locks, cursing as he lost his hold on the crutch and had to lunge to keep it from falling.

The locks finally opened, and Jaime staggered backwards, pulling the door back with him, his brow breaking out in sweat from the effort. Honestly, he was going to fucking kill his brother.

Leaning heavily against the door frame so as not to pass completely out, Jaime looked up, arranging his face into the cool, neutral expression that he used with any medical “professional” with a stick up their ass.

_Oh. Shit._

Brienne Tarth stood in his doorway.

Brienne fucking Tarth.

She looked a foot taller than he remembered her, her white blonde hair cut into a short, almost boyish haircut, a fall of it sweeping across her eyes -- the same damn, unnaturally blue eyes that he remembered from their heated battles on set.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

The practiced expression fell away, and Jaime stood gaping up at her.

Neither of them spoke, as Brienne returned his gaze, her face both wary and strangely almost ferocious.

For one hot minute, Jaime thought she had come here to shout at him, to make him feel bad for not returning her texts -- for not trying hard enough and for drinking way too much and for taking too many pain pills.

His blood rose high in his veins.

“Jaime,” Brienne said finally, her eyes flitting over his filthy t-shirt and track pants; his limp, greasy hair and beard; his bum leg; his right ha…

_Fuck._

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled.

Suddenly Jaime was overcome with anger. How dare Brienne Tarth come here. How dare she come to gawk at him like this. See him so broken and weak and impotent. It was bad enough that he had called her that night when he was at his lowest. Bad enough that he had confessed things to her -- pitiful, pathetic, secret things. Was that it, then? Was she here to rub it in? See firsthand how far he had fallen so she could gloat? _“Karma’s a bitch, Lannister,”_ he could just imagine her saying.

Well, fuck karma and fuck Brienne Tarth!

“Your brother asked me to come,” she said, her expression careful and … judgmental?

He could see the wariness in her manner, the way her eyes darted to the side, as if she were ready to run. She didn’t want to be here.

Well, he didn’t want her to be here either. Fucking Tyrion. He was going to murder the little bastard.

As if magically conjured, that selfsame little bastard waltzed into the room. He took one look at Jaime leaning on the open door and Brienne’s rigid form standing awkwardly at the entrance and loped over to join them.

“Brienne Tarth!” Tyrion cried, nudging Jaime back and extending both of his hands towards Brienne. “How wonderful to see you!”

“Is this a bad time?” Brienne replied nervously, tentatively extending one of her own hands towards Tyrion.

“It’s the best time!” Tyrion almost shouted. “Please come in.” He pushed the door open, causing Jaime to lose his balance and have to hop on one foot, his injured limb waving comically in the air.

Alarmed, Brienne put out a long arm to catch Jaime, but he twisted away from her grasp, and she dropped her hand immediately, her face coloring.

“Don’t mind him,” Tyrion excused, taking her once proffered hand in his own and leading Brienne towards the sitting room. “He doesn’t like help. Thinks it makes him seem weak. As if flailing madly about with only one good arm and one good leg doesn’t.” Tyrion tapped his head with two fingers in an exaggerated gesture. “Head injury, you know,” he explained wryly.

“Shut up,” Jaime growled, slamming the door shut and turning to hobble back to the sitting room.

Oh no, he wouldn’t be murdering Tyrion. Murder was too kind for the little, meddling asshole. Jaime would have to think of a much more painful punishment for his jack-wad of a brother.

Brienne looked stiff and uncomfortable, as she awkwardly folded her body to sit on one end of the couch. Once seated, her hands fell to her lap, long fingers unconsciously smoothing out her pants’ legs.

“We’re so glad you could come,” Tyrion said, perching on the armchair next to her. He looked over at Jaime. “Aren’t we, Jaime?”

Jaime shot Brienne a look out of the corner of his eye, his face a mask of fury. “Are we?”

Tyrion frowned, and Brienne half rose. “I can go,” she said, grabbing for her purse.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Tyrion soothed, waving his hand at her until she had resumed her seat. He turned to his brother and shot him a disapproving look.

“Why is she here?” Jaime asked sullenly.

“I asked her to come.”

“Why?”

“Jaime,” Tyrion said, his voice exasperated. “You haven’t seen anyone except for medical help and the odd cleaning staff in over a month now. And you keep firing everyone you do see. I thought it might be nice to talk to a friend.”

At that, both Jaime and Brienne looked at Tyrion in disbelief.

“Fine -- a colleague, then.” Tyrion rolled his eyes, an edge to his voice. “I thought it might be nice to talk to someone, Jaime. And, as you had reached out to Brienne before your operation, I just thought ...”

Jaime turned his cold glance to Brienne, his green eyes boring into her accusingly.

In response, Brienne’s hands stopped their nervous fumbling, and she raised them in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry. I called him. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you.”

“You didn’t hear from me because I had nothing to say to you,” Jaime spit out. “I don’t know if you’ve realized, Tarth, but we are not exactly best friends.”

“Of course I realize that,” Brienne replied, two red blotches coloring her cheeks. “But I’m not the one who called, Jaime. I’m not the one who started any of this.” She gestured between the three of them.

“Gods’ knows I wish I fucking hadn’t,” Jaime muttered darkly.

“But you did,” Tyrion chimed in. “You did, Jaime. And Brienne was worried about you, so I convinced her to come out so she could allay her fears. And she agreed, not knowing that she would be subjected to one of your ridiculous temper tantrums.”

“Oh I knew,” Brienne argued sourly. “He can’t help but be an ass. It’s a fundamental part of his nature.”

“Even better,” Tyrion cried, clapping his hands together. “She knew you’d be an ass, and she came anyway. That’s true friendship right there.”

They both looked at Tyrion again, but he simply smiled a benevolent smile and shrugged.

Jaime huffed, and Brienne resumed her nervous fussing with her pants.

After a few moments of tense silence, Tyrion tried again. “Jaime, did you know that Brienne’s on a new show?” He gestured towards Brienne. “In fact, she’s using her precious vacation days to come out here and visit you.”

Jaime shook his head. “Stupid of her.”

Brienne rolled her eyes.

“She was worried about you, Jaime. Worried about your recovery. You were worried, weren’t you, Brienne?” Tyrion looked at Brienne and nodded his head, urging her to speak.

“Yes, of course,” Brienne muttered softly. She made eye contact with Tyrion, and what followed seemed to be, from Jaime’s perspective, an intense conversation consisting only of glances and frowns. Finally, after what amounted to a glare-off, Tyrion ended the nonverbal tête-à-tête with a severe grimace and a nod; and Brienne, slightly cowed, turned back to Jaime.

She took a deep breath. “How are you, then?” she tried, her eyes trained on a point just above his head.

“Fucking fantastic.” Oh, he so wasn’t going to play this game. He wasn’t going to assuage her guilt or her pity or her fucking sense of duty or whatever the hells Tyrion had preyed upon to get her here.

Brienne frowned and looked over at him. “How’s the um … the …” She nodded at his arm.

Jaime gave her a cold look, lifting his stump in the sling. “Gone.”

Brienne frowned again. “I’m sorry if …” She broke off, looking at Tyrion nervously. He gave her an encouraging smile, and she turned back to Jaime. “Only -- you never let me know how the operation went. How you were doing.”

“Oh, how careless of me,” Jaime said flatly. “Well, let’s see if I can bring you up to speed. The operation had its expected outcome. It actually took remarkably little time to permanently maim me and leave me a cripple. The wonders of medical science, and all that.”

Tyrion tried to interject something, but Jaime waved him off.

“As for how I’m doing, Tarth -- well, if my brother begging you, of all people, to come and see me hadn’t tipped you off, you can see for yourself how well I’m doing.” He waved his remaining hand down his body. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call you to let you know all the gory details of my fucking maiming. I guess I’ve just been too busy feeling sorry for myself and figuring out how to wipe my ass with my left hand.”

“Jaime!” Tyrion cried, horrified.

The three of them froze, as the moment hung between them, loaded and still. But then, before Jaime could truly revel in the fact that he had rendered Brienne speechless, she let out a loud guffaw, her eyes suddenly alight.

“Less one hand but even more of a dick!” she proclaimed gleefully, shaking her head and grinning. “Guess it’s a fair trade then.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened, and Jaime looked at her in shock.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Brienne said, their silence making her grin wider. “Are we not doing the whole inappropriate joking about the injury thing? My mistake. I was never any good at reading a room.”

Tyrion erupted into laughter at that, and after one long minute, the hard edges of Jaime’s face softened, and he sank back against the couch cushions in begrudging defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said again, her own body relaxing slightly in response to Jaime’s surrender. She turned to him with a sheepish smile. “Tyrion thought it might be good for you to have a visitor.”

“Fucking Tyrion,” Jaime muttered, but the anger was gone from his voice.

“Actually, it was all part of my evil plan to get a break,” Tyrion cried, jumping to his feet and seizing the moment that had been laid in his lap. “Jaime keeps firing all of the help, so I’ve been the only one on duty forever.” He walked to the foyer table, grabbing a set of keys and wrestling his coat off of the hook. “With you here, Brienne, I can finally run a few errands.”

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” Jaime grumbled.

“Then stop acting like a fucking child,” Tyrion replied, this time a definite edge to his voice. He turned to Brienne. “I have my phone. Call me if he gets too insufferable.”

Brienne’s eyes widened nervously, but she only nodded in agreement.

When Tyrion was gone, she turned back to Jaime. “I did tell him this was a bad idea.”

Jaime sighed but didn’t answer.

“He was convinced that, since you called me, you’d be open to me visiting. I think he just doesn’t know what to do and is grasping at straws.”

“Yes, whatever will we do about poor Jaime?” Jaime groused, although his heart was no longer into it. “Quite a lost cause, really.”

“He’s worried about you. That’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“You’d rather people didn’t care -- just let you wallow in self-pity?”

Jaime groaned. “Gods, woman, has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is shit?”

Brienne looked affronted, but then, after a few moments of contemplation, smiled. “I suppose it is.” She let out a low chuckle. “I’m not really known for my warm and nurturing nature, as you well know.”

The corner of Jaime’s mouth lifted. “I do indeed.”

They fell into an awkward silence; however, at least, the tightly wound animosity seemed to be waning.

Brienne let herself look around the messy room, her eyes focusing on an army of orange, prescription pill containers lined up on the side table. “How’s the pain?”

Jaime startled, his eyes flitting to the bottles. “It’s fine,” he tried to say, but the lie got caught in the back of his throat. “Actually, it’s not. It’s been hell.”

“I can only imagine.”

“No, you can’t imagine,” Jaime muttered bitterly. “It’s a completely different existence, living in constant pain. It’s not really living at all -- just surviving -- just dull, painful, interminable surviving.” He looked at her sharply. “I guess that’s where the self-pity comes in, as you said.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne tried, but Jaime cut her off.

“I still feel it, you know. The hand. Especially at night. I feel my fingers. Feel the crushed bones. The bite of the saw. The severing of the nerves. I can’t sleep -- am afraid to sleep, in case I wake up with my hand on fire.”

“Do the pills help?”

“They dull it, but they dull everything else too.” Jaime exhaled tiredly. “What can I say, it’s a glamorous life. Not much to recommend.”

“Do you sleep at all?”

“Not really.”

Her eyes scanned over him, the blue of her pupils like clear, ocean water.

He watched her take him in, her expression caught somewhere between worry and pity. Well, fuck that!

Jaime laughed, an angry, stuttering sound. “Hah! I bet you never thought you’d see the day when you would be the more attractive one of the two of us.” He smirked and watched the pity retreat from her eyes, replaced quickly by hot annoyance. _Good. He’d much rather she curse him than pity him._

“Oh fuck off!” Brienne threw out, more out of habit than anger. But then her eyes narrowed, critically assessing him.

Jaime Lannister.

Bone thin, red-eyed, greasy haired, unshaven, Jaime Lannister. Jaime Lannister-- who looked all the world like he had crawled out of a dungeon after years of starvation and torture. Jaime Lannister -- who was still giving her that cocky, patented, self-satisfied smirk, even though he looked halfway to dead. Suddenly, Brienne couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling up at the incongruousness of the moment. She clamped her lips together tightly in a failed attempt to prevent herself from giggling.

“What?” Jaime asked testily, noticing the strained look on her face. _Was the awful woman actually laughing at him?_

That did it --his indignantly wounded look though his curtain of greasy hair. Brienne started shaking with silent laughter and then shaking with not so silent laughter.

Jaime looked at her appalled.

“You’re right,” she gasped out, wiping her eyes and trying to stop her mad giggles. “You’re so right. If we were filming right now, not one person would think you were out of my league. In fact they might even think _I_ could do better.” Brienne collapsed against the couch in glee, holding her sides. “Gods, what a plot twist. _Westerosi_ fans would never believe it!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jaime groused, running his good hand through his hair. He grimaced at the feel and wiped his palm on the leg of his sweatpants.

His actions only caused Brienne to laugh harder.

“For fuck’s sake, Tarth. It’s not that funny. And all this is just temporary,” Jaime argued, waving his good hand in front of his body. “Despite the lack of a hand, I can still clean up nicely.”

“Yes,” Brienne cried, gasping for air. “Yes. Yes. Of course you can. Of course you can.” Suddenly she stopped laughing and looked at Jaime through streaming eyes. “So why don’t you clean up then?”

His angry expression dropped, and he gaped at her, mouth falling open.

“No, for real. Why are you so revolting? I’d imagine you’d feel a lot better once you bathed. I know you’d smell a lot better.” She waved a hand in front of her nose.

Jaime frowned. “I … I haven’t really seen the point.”

_Hells, he didn’t have to explain himself. This was his house, for Seven’s sake. He could do whatever he damn well pleased._

Brienne grinned at that, her eye make-up a bit smeared from her tears, the black smudging only making the blue of her eyes stand out more. She leaned forward, her elbows coming to her knees. “Well, here’s a point for you then. Clean up so people don’t see the two of us and think that I’m now the pretty one.”

Jaime flushed indignantly. His initial comment had been a joke -- a way to slight her. But she, in normal Brienne Tarth fashion, had turned it around and used it to wound him. To wound him -- who was already fucking wounded enough! Gods, no wonder he hadn’t spoken to the bloody woman in ten years. “Oh, please...” he sputtered.

“Right then,” Brienne said, rising. “Which way’s the bathroom?”

“Down the hall to the left,” Jaime muttered, still fuming. He raised his head suspiciously. “Why?”

“I’m running you a bath.”

“What?” he cried, still annoyed but now also slightly panicked. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you, Tarth. I know you’ve always had a thing for me, but I think watching me bathe is just a bit too desperate and pathetic, even for you.”

Brienne turned and looked at Jaime square in the eye. “Jaime Lannister, I have never in my life had a thing for you. I do, however, have a thing for not vomiting; and right now the smell coming off of your unwashed person is making me want to lose my lunch.”

“No one asked you to come here.”

“Tyrion asked me to come here.”

“No one is making you stay.”

“True,” Brienne said levelly. “If you’d rather me just go and leave you to wallow in your own filth, I will.” She paused and gestured down the hall. “Or I could run you a nice, hot bath and get you some clean clothes and, who knows, we may even find Jaime Lannister, renowned super star and sex god, lurking under all that grime.”

_He should tell her fuck off with herself. He didn’t need her, and he didn’t need a bath. Well, maybe he did need a bath, but he could do that later, in privacy, by himself._

Brienne was still standing, a questioning look in her eye.

 _Wait a minute. Did she say sex god?_ He chanced a glance up at her.

She raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

“Fine,” Jaime finally acquiesced, not able to avoid the sting of embarrassment. He’d call her bluff, but it would be a hollow victory. They were arguing about his personal hygiene, for fuck’s sake. _Gods, was this Tyrion’s master plan all along? Get him alone with Brienne so she could manhandle him into bathing?_

He sighed in defeat. There was no use in protesting now. He had taken up the stupid gauntlet.

“Run the damn bath, then,” he muttered.

Brienne nodded and wandered down the hall towards the bathroom.

“No, wait!” Jaime called after her, increasingly angry at the lack of control he now seemed to have over his godsdamn life. “Use the master bath. Three doors down on the right.”

“Fine,” she called back over her shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

Brienne opened the bedroom door and was immediately struck with the oily, musty smell of unwashed bodies. Breathing through her mouth, she quickly went to the glass door leading out to the balcony, opening it wide. The day was cold and rainy, but the air was blessedly fresh and cool.

She turned back to the room, grimacing at the mess. Plates of uneaten food and dirty clothes littered the floor. The sheets on the bed were stained and stiff in far too many places, the white coverlet tinged a grayish yellow. A pile of fouled bandages marked with dried blood and pus was spilling over the trash can by the bedside table. Gods, it was bad. How did Jaime let it get so bad? How did Tyrion allow it to get so bad? Didn’t rich people have cleaners or something? She shook her head and went into the master bathroom.

The bathroom was gorgeous -- or it had been at one time. All smooth marble and expensive fixtures and lighting. Only now the sink and counter were covered with used bandages and ointment and blood and, gods, was that dirty underwear? _Christ, how the mighty had fallen._

Shaking herself out of her shocked reverie, Brienne walked over to the large marble bathtub, which was big enough for a small army. Using the detachable shower-head, she cleaned out the basin, before she adjusted the water temperature and started filling the tub.

Cautiously, she looked in the bathroom cabinets, finding a jar of medicinal bath salts and a bag of bin liners. She added a generous handful of salts to the hot water, and using one bin liner as an impromptu glove, started picking up all of the trash littering the counters and floors.

By the time the tub had filled, she had collected three quarters of a bag full of trash. Turning back to the bathroom cabinets, she found a set of gold, fluffy towels with red embroidering. She sniffed them. They seemed clean enough, so she laid them out by the tub. She then ventured back into the bedroom which was now quite cold; however, the smell, at least, had dissipated.

Rummaging around in Jaime’s dresser, she found a pair of old track pants and a worn t-shirt. She tried one of the upper drawers but couldn’t for the life of her find any clean boxer shorts. _Ah well, Jaime would just have to make do, until laundry could be done._ She brought the clothes back into the bathroom and laid them out on the now clean countertop. That was going to have to do.

Sighing, she went back out into the living room to fetch Jaime.

He gave her an angry look but hauled himself up off of the couch and hobbled down the hall, once again refusing the offer of her hand.

Once in his bedroom, Jaime stopped, looking at the open balcony door. “Fuck, it’s colder than a crone’s tit in here,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, but at least it doesn’t smell like ass anymore,” Brienne quipped back, leading him into the bathroom.

Once inside, Jaime surveyed the space. “I didn’t ask you to clean.”

“You didn’t.”

He looked at the clothes that were laid out for him. “Did you go through my drawers, Tarth?”

Brienne raised her chin challengingly. “I did. You are out of underwear.”

Jaime huffed, refusing to be embarrassed. “Yeah. I ran out a long time ago.”

“Surely you’ve heard of a washing machine?”

“Yeah,” Jaime waved away the question. “Sounds vaguely familiar.”

They looked at each other silently, steam rising from the bath, the scent of menthol and eucalyptus from the bath salts thick in the air.

“Right,” Brienne said suddenly, breaking the spell. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She turned to go.

“I’m going to need some help.” He turned to her, a hint of a smirk suddenly lighting his tired face.

“I’m not undressing you, Lannister.”

“Just getting out of the sling and leg brace,” Jaime explained, the twist of his lips still annoyingly sly. “And getting the shirt off without hurting the wound.

Brienne looked at him warily.

“I’d ask Tyrion, if he were here. But someone was so anxious to get the stink off of me, that they couldn’t wait for his return.”

Brienne sighed. “Fine.” She walked over to him, gesturing for him to take a seat on the side of the tub.

Clumsily he lowered himself down, letting his crutch clatter to the tile floor.

Brienne undid his leg brace first, long fingers unlatching the Velcro straps and gently pulling it down Jaime’s leg. His leg was criss-crossed with scars -- angry, red slashes where the stitches had only recently been. Before she could stop herself, Brienne reached out one finger and lightly traced a puffy, jagged scar, looking up sharply when Jaime shuddered and caught his breath.

“Sorry,” she murmured, rising up on her knees to reach behind his neck to undo the clasp of his sling.

Jaime bent his head, breathing in and out, as Brienne’s fingers fumbled, catching on the hair that curled over his neck, before bringing both sides of the strap down and gently maneuvering the sling off of Jaime’s arm.

And there it was -- wrapped in a dingy, white bandage, its tapering point bulky with gauze and padding -- his stump.

Jaime’s face tightened, his hand on the bathtub edge turning white.

“Should we wrap it in plastic, do you think?” Brienne asked quietly, ignoring Jaime’s reaction and instead gesturing vaguely towards Jaime’s injury. “It’s probably best not to get it wet.”

He nodded silently, and Brienne rose to get another bin liner. Carefully she covered the bandaged arm and tied the ends around Jaime’s arm just above his elbow. Without waiting, she reached forward and tugged the hem of his soiled t-shirt up.

Jaime’s eyes widened, but he helped her by raising up his left arm.

She was undressing him as if he were a child. A helpless child with only one hand. By all rights, he should be humiliated. He should be mortified. But Jaime found himself strangely calm. It was odd to have Brienne here, in his house, in his bathroom, running him a bath. Odd, but also somehow ... not.

Gently Brienne moved the fabric, freeing Jaime’s head before carefully -- ever so carefully -- moving it over his plastic covered arm.

Once the shirt was off, her eyes fell to his torso.

He had lost weight. A lot of weight. The hollows of his neck and collar bones were pronounced, and his ribs were visible under a sheath of tanned skin. But, as her eyes ran over his jutting bones and sharp, raw angles, all Brienne could think was that he was wrong. Jaime was completely wrong. Even in his broken, dirty state, the blasted man was beautiful. Far more beautiful than she could ever hope to be.

“Like what you see there, Tarth?” Jaime smirked, raising his eyebrows.

“Just trying to breathe through my mouth, Lannister. When was the last time you used deodorant?” She shook her head, ignoring his hurt frown, and rose to her feet. “OK, use the side of the tub to brace yourself getting in. Hopefully, Tyrion will be back in time to help you out.”

“Wait, you’re not leaving?” Jaime asked, slightly panicked.

“I thought I’d head back to my hotel.”

“You can’t leave an injured man in the bath, Brienne. What if I pass out? What if I can’t get out? What if I fall?”

She sighed heavily. _Why in Seven had she suggested this?_ She could be lounging in the hotel by now, enjoying room service on Tyrion’s dime. Instead she would now have to babysit while Jaime took a bath. “Fine. I’ll stay until Tyrion gets home,” she finally conceded.

She started to leave the bathroom, before turning back. “Do you actually own a washing machine?”

“Of course I do. It’s in the room by the kitchen.”

“I’ll just do a load of laundry, while I wait. Your sheets and blankets, maybe some underwear.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “I have a maid, Brienne. You don’t have to wash my underwear.”

“Good,” Brienne said briskly, looking around the bathroom exaggeratedly. “Where’s she hiding then? Maybe she can monitor your bath too, and I can leave.”

Jaime shot her a sheepish look. “Well, I guess I did have a maid. I fired her last month.”

Brienne sighed heavily. “I’m sensing a pattern here, Lannister.” She frowned at him and turned to go. “Be careful getting in,” she warned, before shutting the door.

Once she had left, Jaime looked around the bathroom pondering the turn of events.

Yes, definitely odd -- sitting here in his semi-clean bathroom about to take a bath after being undressed by Brienne Tarth. Brienne Tarth, oh she of self-righteousness and judgmental scowls. Brienne Tarth -- who was currently washing his bed sheets and underwear, as if they hadn’t gone ten long years without talking to each other.

Was this an infection-induced hallucination? A side-effect of too many sleepless nights and pain pills?

Jaime ran a distracted hand through his hair, wincing once again at the greasy film that coated his fingers. _Shit. He needed a wash._

Using his good hand, he pulled down his pants, being careful with his bad leg. Bracing himself on the side of the tub, he turned his body and lowered both legs into the water, groaning at the warmth that instantly surrounded him. Gingerly he lowered his body into the bath, keeping his stump raised until he was sitting. Once settled, he carefully leaned back against the tub edge.

 _Gods be good, why hadn’t he done this sooner?_ His tight, bunched muscles felt like putty, as they slowly released and unwound. _Shit. This was better than sex, the feel of hot water soaking the grime and grief off of his skin._

In the bedroom, Brienne averted her eyes and stripped Jaime’s bed, trying not to notice the magnitude of the stains. Bundling the fouled sheets in her arms and being careful not to breathe through her nose, Brienne made her way down to the enormous kitchen, which was not quite as horrifying as Jaime’s bedroom but still pretty disgusting. Kicking open the laundry room door, she dropped her load of soiled fabric on the floor and rummaged around in the cabinet until she found the laundry detergent.

Once the sheets were in, she returned to the bedroom, to gather a pile of dirty clothes from the bedroom floor, making sure that she gathered as many pairs of underwear as she could find. She then set about picking up the trash that littered the room. Hells, there was a fortune in glass beer bottles alone. She gathered those up in a separate bag for recycling. Occasionally, she put her ear to the door to make sure Jaime hadn’t drowned. However, it was pretty quiet, with just the occasional groan or light sigh.

When the sheets were washed and Brienne had transferred them to the dryer, Jaime was still soaking in the tub. Unwilling to hurry him, Brienne sat down on the unmade bed and scrolled through her phone, catching up on any messages she had missed. There was a text from her dad and one from Robb. She smiled as she set about answering.

After shooting off a quick message to her father, Brienne turned to Robb’s text.

**Robb: How’s Lannister? Have you killed him yet?**

**Brienne: Not yet. The day is still young, though.**

She watched as the three dots appeared. Robb must be on break from filming. He was shooting an emotional scene with Davos today -- a scene in which Ser Brynden, injured and exhausted, breaks down in front of the kindly older knight and bares his heart. She had helped a worried Robb rehearse it just yesterday.

**Robb: Is he still an asshole?**

**Brienne: Yep. It’s just like old times. Although after years of diligent study, he’s now completely fluent in criticism and scathing insults. Super charming, lol.**

**Robb: Fuck him. You know you don’t owe him anything.**

**Brienne: I know. I like to think I’m a good person, though. : )**

**Robb: You are. The best person. He doesn’t deserve you.**

**Brienne: True. But who does, really?**

**Robb: Fair point.**

**Brienne: Listen, I should probably go, in case his majesty needs my assistance. Is everything OK with you?**

**Robb: Everything’s fine. I miss you, though.**

**Brienne: Aw, Stark. Don’t tell me you're getting sentimental on me now? Honestly, I would think you’d enjoy having a break from me -- or does Davos also embarrass you and call you rude nicknames to make you blush?**

**Robb: Piss off, Tarth.**

**Brienne: Lol, I miss you too, Stark. I’ll talk to you later.**

**Robb: Yeah. Call if you need anything. And, Bri -- Lannister doesn’t know shit.**

**Brienne: Oh believe me, I’m well aware. Talk soon.**

**Robb: Bye**

Suddenly, Brienne heard splashing and got up to investigate. “Everything all right in there?” she called, her mouth close to the door.

Another big splash and then, “Just washing my hair. You know, Tarth, this would be a whole lot easier, if you would just do it for me.”

“Dream on, Lannister.”

“Brienne, I assure you that even in my wildest dreams, I never dream of you.”

“Good,” Brienne gritted. “Are you almost done? That water must be ice cold by now.”

She heard a splash and dripping noises and the sound of a plug being pulled and then a heavy thump on the floor.

Jaime sat dripping on the side of the tub, before grabbing one of the gold towels and pulling it over to dry his body. Patting the fabric against his skin, he marveled at the change. He felt about fifty pounds lighter. Shit, he may even be able to sleep tonight.

After a cursory rub down, he grabbed the clean track pants and threaded his feet through them, carefully hoisting himself up into a one-legged crouched position to hastily pull them up over his hips. He toweled off his hair next and patted his chest until most of the moisture was gone. With his left hand, he tried to release the knot that Brienne had made on the sheet of plastic covering his stump, but his fingers were still clumsy and unpracticed. She’d have to do it.

The tub had almost finished emptying, when Jaime called through the door for Brienne to enter.

Brienne opened the door warily, peeking in like a bashful maid -- almost as if she were afraid he was going to launch himself at her stark naked. However, seeing him already dressed in sweats, she let out an audible breath and approached him to fumble at his plastic covering.

“Well?” Jaime asked after a moment too long of silence.

“Well, what?” She finally released the knot and slid the plastic off his bandaged arm.

He winced as his covered stump came back into sight. He would never get used to the damn thing.

Jaime glanced back at Brienne’s face. “What do you think? Have I returned to my natural state of sex god handsomeness?”

She leaned over and gave him an exaggerated sniff. “You sure as hells smell better.” Dropping to her knees on the floor in front of him, she grabbed the t-shirt from where it lay and carefully angled it over his head. “All right then.”

Jaime bent his head obediently, giving her a faint half-smirk. The clean fabric was pulled down around his neck, and Jaime looked up to meet her eyes. “Now there’s a sight I never thought I’d see,” he murmured lowly, his green eyes narrowing lazily. “Brienne Tarth on her knees before me.”

“Watch it, Lannister,” Brienne shot back, carefully pulling the t-shirt down and around his stump, before helping his other arm through the sleeve. “I can still kill you and make it look like you drowned in the bath.” She grabbed the sling and threaded his stump through it, moving forward on her knees and leaning over him to hook the strap behind his neck. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”

Maybe it was because he was so relaxed from the bath -- maybe it was because, despite her size and obvious annoyance with him, Brienne’s touch was surprisingly gentle -- maybe it was just because he hadn’t seen her in ten years and wanted to see if she were still recognizable, but, without thinking, Jaime turned his face slightly, brushing into her hair and catching the scent of her neck. He inhaled. Yes. Definitely familiar -- the smell of sunscreen and soap. However, in the ten years he hadn’t seen her, Brienne had taken to wearing perfume -- a light, citrusy, floral scent that suited her… perhaps? Maybe not. It was odd that she wore such a delicate perfume, wasn’t it? Honestly, he’d never given much thought to the smell of her before. She always smelled good. Well, clean anyway. In those last few years of _Westerosi,_ Jaime had had many opportunities to be close enough to smell the woman. And he didn’t have any complaints -- any complaints about her scent anyway.

Before he could truly decide whether or not Brienne’s perfume suited her, the woman in question sat back on her heels and grabbed the leg brace. With one hand she deftly pushed up the leg of Jaime’s track pants, noticing that the skin, although now clean, was already dull and ashy. “Do you want to put anything on this, before we cover it up again?” She asked, running a fingernail down the side of his calf and watching the skin roll and flake.

Jaime inhaled sharply, his leg shaking a bit. “Lotion’s on the counter,” he muttered. He kept himself still, his muscles tense, as Brienne warmed the lotion in her hands and smoothed it over his leg.

_Shit._

Jamie tightened his jaw and fought very hard not to close his eyes. _Damn. It felt good. Much too good._ Those long, pale fingers rubbing over his itchy, swollen leg, the angry, red latticework of scars. _Why did it feel so good? It should not feel like this. It shouldn’t._ Was it just that he hadn’t been touched in so long? _Gods, how long had it been now? Well over a month, at least. Six weeks? Seven?_ Whatever -- his body was simply responding to being touched. And he was still feeling the effects from the bath. Hells, he would probably have the same reaction if Tyrion were the one rubbing lotion on him. Tyrion, who didn’t wear perfume that smelled like flowers. Tyrion who had short, stubby fingers and whose skin smelled less of sunscreen and soap and more of wine and cigarettes …

And that image brought Jaime crashing back down to earth.

_So maybe not the same reaction then._

Unaware of Jaime’s thoughts, Brienne finished her ministrations and re-positioned the leg brace, tightening it in place. She then rose to hang up the towels and to gather Jaime’s dirty clothes, before bending down to pick up his crutch and offer it to him.

“Thanks,” Jaime said gruffly, two splotches of pink still marking his face from his confused reaction to her impromptu massage.

Brienne nodded and led the way out of the bathroom.

Hobbling into the bedroom, Jaime noticed that, although it was still cold, his room smelled a million times better. Fresh sheets were on his bed and all of the old clothes and trash had been cleared from the floor.

“You didn’t have to…” Jaime tried.

“It gave me something to do while I waited,” Brienne replied, barely sparing him a glance.

Jaime nodded, and together they made their way back into the living room.

Once in the sitting room, Jaime lowered himself back down to the couch, noticing that Brienne had picked up a bit in this room as well. She had also unearthed the soft, afghan blanket his Aunt Genna had made for Jaime when he was just a baby. It was folded on one of the couch cushions, and Jaime pulled it over to him, covering his legs.

“Do you think your brother will be back soon?” Brienne asked, stifling a yawn. “It’s getting late, and I’m starving.”

He should let her go. She had already done far too much. Surely she hadn’t planned on taking care of an invalid when she had agreed to visit him. And gods it would be good to get away from those critical eyes for a bit.

Brienne Tarth and her rigid expectations and judgmental frowns. She was hating every minute of being here -- it was written all over her face. However, Brienne’s disapproving manner notwithstanding, Jaime found that he was loath to let the nonsensical afternoon end.

“We can order food,” he said, looking away so as not to have to see her reaction, which he was sure was going to be a severe frown. “I’m kind of hungry myself.”

It was true. He was hungry, which was not a common state of being for him. In actuality, his pain pills made him perpetually nauseous (probably because he always took them on an empty stomach). But quite suddenly he felt famished.

In the end, they ordered sandwiches and soup from a deli down the street -- Brienne paying because Jaime had no idea where his wallet and phone were. He was slightly abashed, but she waved him off.

“Listen, Lannister. I just drew you a bath and washed your unmentionables. Paying for your meal is nothing in comparison.”

Jaime thanked her sheepishly, marveling once more at how very strange the whole situation seemed to be.

They ate in front of the TV, watching a documentary on the Andals. And although Jaime hadn’t had much of an appetite since his surgery, he found himself actually enjoying the chicken soup, discovering that it warmed him almost as much as the bath had.

At one point in the evening, the alarm on his phone sounded from where it was buried in between the cushions of the couch -- a noisy reminder to take his pain pills.

Without being asked, Brienne got up to retrieve the tablets and a glass of water.

Jaime watched her, marveling at the sight of Brienne in his kitchen -- Brienne rifling through his cupboards for a glass -- Brienne carefully measuring out his pain pills in her palm.

She brought them back to him, tipping her hand into his, and Jaime thanked her and dutifully swallowed them down. It was strangely domestic -- strangely familiar -- which was ridiculous because there was nothing about his relationship with Brienne that had ever been remotely domestic.

Clearing his throat noisily, Jaime returned his gaze to the television show, watching the Andals migrate across the Narrow Sea, violently bringing the Faith of the Seven in a bloody Crusade and doing their best to destroy the Weirwood groves and the deep magic of a different age.

When the program faded into an interview with a modern historian, Jaime found his focus once again drifting. Exhaling softly, he leaned against the couch back, pulling up the quilt and chancing another glance at Brienne who sat primly on the far side of the sofa, enraptured by the show, her expression serious and stern and so patently Brienne it was almost painful.

Gods, this whole damn day was completely unreal. Otherworldly. It was as if past and present, reality and fiction, had been confused into a bizarre synthesis -- the mixed-up jumble of a fever dream.

Jaime’s gaze jumped from a shot of the Weirwood trees and then back to Brienne.

_How odd._

Brienne Tarth. Brienne fucking Tarth was sitting here on his couch watching the Children of the Forest fight to protect the old magic. Brienne Tarth -- his condescending, self-righteous, judgmental, no fun at all, annoyingly somber, ill-tempered, infuriating, ex TV-girlfriend whom he had said goodbye to ten years ago and, aside from one panicked night in the hospital, hadn’t missed since -- was here. Here in his house. And, strangely, it felt … _Hells, how did it feel?_ _Well, certainly not bad. Not bad at all._

Jaime blinked as a wash of -- not affection exactly, but something soft and disconcertingly warm swelled over him.

_Gods, stupid, stupid pain pills. And sleep deprivation. And head injuries. And blood loss. And trauma._

Rolling his eyes at his own ridiculous thoughts, Jaime let out an exasperated huff and turned his attention back to the television, watching the Children of the Forest carve deep, painful faces into the Weirwoods -- an affirmation of their existence and a warning to those who would try to erase them.

The camera panned to a close-up shot of one of the heart trees' ancient faces, the expression dour and set. Jaime’s mouth twitched. He wanted to make a joke -- wanted to compare the grim visaged tree to Brienne’s own stern expression; but his head was too muddled, his tongue too heavy to make work.

Instead, unable to resist the increasing weight of his eyelids, Jaime found himself nodding off, warm and clean and relaxed -- dreaming of magic and spirits and bathwater the color of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it only took eight chapters for present day Jaime and Brienne to be in the same room together, lol. Thanks so much for your patience. 
> 
> And speaking of thanks, I am so incredibly grateful for your support and encouragement. I appreciate every view, subscription, bookmark, kudo, and comment. You are wonderful! 💖


	9. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Brienne launch the next attack. Jaime doesn't know what hit him.

**“Connection”**

**Elastica**

**“I don't understand how a heart is a spade,**   
**But somehow the vital connection is made.”**

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Jaime woke up thirteen and a half hours later feeling remarkably lighter. Grabbing his crutch, he hobbled to the semi-clean bathroom and splashed cold water on his face.

The clear feeling from yesterday lingered, and loathe to lose it, Jaime brushed his teeth, glancing at his face critically.

Christ, his beard was out of control. He looked like one of Bronn’s Wildling friends. Perhaps he should shave?

Turning his face to the right, he brought his left hand up to awkwardly palm his chin. No, no. He didn’t have a right hand. There was no way he could pull off anything involving a sharp edge with his left. Instead he fumbled through the cabinets until he found a pair of dulled sheers and carefully went about tidying up his beard, as best as he could. When he was finished, he washed out the sink (illogically worried about what Tarth would say, if she saw the mess) and surveyed his image.

Not bad. His face was still wan and tired, the bones more pronounced with his weight loss; but, at least, his hair was clean and his beard was trimmed. He had definitely looked worse.

Limping out to the kitchen, Jaime was met by the smell of coffee, which instantly made his stomach turn.

“Good morning, brother,” Tyrion called from the kitchen table where he sat looking at his phone. “You’re looking remarkably well. I’d forgotten what you looked like under all that filth and grime.”

Jaime grunted and went over to put the kettle on for tea. He’d save coffee for later, when his stomach was more settled.

“Did you sleep?” Tyrion had put the phone down and was surveying Jaime with a critical eye.

“I did actually,” Jaime replied. “No dreams for once.”

“Excellent, excellent. I wonder what made the difference?”

“Who knows?”

“And you trimmed your beard,” Tyrion continued, bemused.

“Yeah, I wanted a shave but didn’t think I had the coordination for it,” Jaime replied, pulling out a mug and the canister of tea. “Perhaps we could get someone in for a haircut and shave.”

“Yes, of course. Good idea,” Tyrion agreed, taking a gulp of coffee. “Maybe we could get someone in after you see the new physical therapist today. He’s coming at eleven, by the way.”

Jaime sighed wearily but nodded his head in acceptance. “Yes. Fine.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows suspiciously at that, waiting for Jaime’s protest to come. When it didn’t, he continued cautiously. “It was nice to see Brienne yesterday.” He looked down, seemingly absorbed in his phone again. “I’m sorry I was so late returning, but it seemed like you were in good hands.”

Jaime let out a grunt of protest, and Tyrion looked up, having the good grace to look abashed. “Too soon? Forgive me.” He smiled an apologetic smile. “Tell me, brother, what kind of magic did the giantess use to get you to bathe?”

“Stop.”

“I’m completely serious, Jaime. I begged you on bended knee to shower. Begged you. Promised you my share of the inheritance, however small it may be when father finally kicks the bucket, but I couldn’t even get you to wash your face. What did Brienne say to convince you?”

“If you really must know, she insulted me,” Jaime replied testily. “Told me that, in my current state, she was way out of my league, if you can even imagine. I had to prove her wrong.”

Tyrion dissolved into laughter. “I knew it!” he cried. “I knew she would be good for you!”

“I hardly think …” Jaime began before grumbling in annoyance. He pointed his mug at Tyrion. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you ambushed me, Tyrion. I will repay you in kind, believe me.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Tyrion smiled. “But ambush or not, she was good for you.”

Jaime opened his mouth to argue but found that he didn’t have the words.

“She challenges you,” Tyrion proclaimed.

“We can’t stand each other. Never have been able to.”

“Maybe so, but you still care desperately what she thinks.”

“Right,” Jaime said, shaking his head.

“You do! You don’t want to appear weak in front of her.”

“Are you finished?”

“You should call her,” Tyrion said, his voice practiced and casual.

Jaime paused, mug in hand, and looked at his brother. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, she’s in town for another couple of days. And she did come out here predominantly to see you.”

“Right,” Jaime said again, giving Tyrion an exasperated look. “Honestly, Tyrion, I can’t believe you even got her out here in the first place. What did you tell her? It must have been good.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Did you tell her I was dying?”

Tyrion laughed. “No, no, she was the one who called me. She was worried about you,” he explained. “I just suggested that she come out and see for herself how you were doing. It didn’t take much to convince her.”

“I’m sure it didn’t,” Jaime deadpanned. “Tell me, brother, who’s paying for her hotel room?”

“That would be Father.”

“And her flight?”

“What can I say? You know how generous Father can be.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

“Still, you should call her, Jaime. She’s in town for another two days.”

“Who says I want to see her again?”

“Does that really matter at this point?” Tyrion said, his mouth curling into a knowing grin. “Honestly, Jaime, what else do you have to do today? Sit on the couch watching crap television and not eating? She’s here. You’re here. At the very least, the two of you can catch up. You know, shoot the shit -- trade war stories -- reminisce about the good, old days.”

“Ah yes, the good, old days,” Jaime said flatly. He grimaced, taking a sip of his too hot tea. “We had so many of those.”

**~~~~~~**

**Fourteen and a Half Years Ago:**

Jaime took a deep breath, leaning back against the leather upholstery of the car seat and centering himself. Brienne was still over in make-up, getting tear tracks and smudged mascara painted on her face; and Jaime blessedly had the car to himself for a few minutes. He tilted his head, consciously relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders, half-watching the flurry of activity around him, as the cameras and sound crew set up for the shot.

Yesterday had been … strange, to say the least.

Granted, Jaime was still new to this whole acting thing. However, he had been at it for almost a year now and had never before experienced anything quite like yesterday.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t acted with Tarth before. No, in actuality he had acted with her quite a bit, as Roman and Raina were fond of harassing poor, pathetically nerdy Dunc. And those past scenes together had been good. Fine. Nothing to write home about. Tarth had been just another actor in the endless parade of teenage actors that Jaime had shared the frame with in his _Westerosi_ tenure so far. The only thing that had really set her apart from all of his other co-stars was the fact that Brienne was currently the youngest actor on set, having just recently turned fifteen. Jaime, who was well on his way to twenty, didn’t have much in common with her. Didn’t really know her at all. They hadn’t had a conversation -- well, ever -- aside from a perfunctory greeting at table read-throughs. So, not surprisingly, he hadn’t given her much thought.

Cersei, of course, thought that a fifteen-year-old girl who was taller than any of the adults in the cast was ridiculous in a “circus sideshow freak” sort of way and delighted in making snide comments under her breath about Brienne’s height and her too-big smile and her awkward, stumbling speech. However, Jaime hadn’t cared enough about Brienne Tarth to really listen or respond.

But then yesterday happened, and Jaime had suddenly been forced to care about her. Because overgrown, awkward kid or not, Brienne Tarth was good. She was damn good. She had completely out-acted Jaime and then some yesterday. And it had thrown him for a fucking loop. Hells, _Westerosi_ might be Jaime’s first acting gig, but he was good at this acting thing. People told him he was a natural -- that he had a face made for film. What’s more, Jaime knew he was good -- he saw the evidence of that every day. Except yesterday. Tarth had shown him that he was just a minor leaguer compared to her.

It had been shocking. And humiliating. And infuriating. She was fifteen years old, for fucks’ sake! She shouldn’t be that good. But she had been, and Jaime couldn’t help but feel threatened by her. And, if yesterday was anything to go by, today’s scenes were going to be even worse. They had the bloody car ride to shoot today. The car ride where Dunc cries about the bet, and Roman tries to comfort her, and every damn emotion is laid bare for all to see.

Shit, there was just nothing else to it -- Jaime was going to have to keep up today. He had to keep up. He couldn’t let this fifteen-year-old, giant of a girl with braces and freckles and stupidly arresting eyes act circles around him. Someone would notice. They would surely notice, and then it would be over. Jaime’s dream -- his entire plan to get out from under the clutches of his father and his suffocating family legacy would be ruined.

No, no -- he wasn’t going to let Brienne Tarth ruin that. He had spent all night last night running lines with Tyrion -- making sure he knew every beat of the damn scene -- practicing every calculated look -- every break in his voice. He could do this. He could fucking do this. He just had to concentrate.

He took a steadying breath, as the passenger door opened, and Brienne folded her long body into the car.

She gave him a sideways glance, her expression slightly nervous.

In his stunned and angry reaction to yesterday’s shooting, Jaime hadn’t been very nice to her; and Brienne clearly didn’t know how to act around him. _Well, good. Maybe that would put her off of her game._

Her hands fidgeted in her lap, but Jaime didn’t turn to acknowledge her. Instead he kept his eyes trained forward, running his lines in his head, as the atmosphere in the car turned awkwardly uncomfortable.

A few long moments later, the director tapped at his window, and Jaime lowered it.

“You guys ready?” the director asked, gesturing towards Brienne who nodded in response. “Try not to pay attention to camera movements and mind the lighting. Car interiors are freaking impossible to shoot well. We're going to have our hands full, so be aware of your marks at all times. Jaime, remember not to take your eyes away from the road for more than a moment, OK? You have to convince us that you are actually driving.” He gestured to the green screen that would serve as the dark, city streets.

“Got it,” Jaime said.

“Brienne, you good, babe?” the director asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied nervously, wiping the palms of her hands on her jean clad legs.

“OK. Let’s do this.” He backed out of the window.

The AD stepped forward with the clapboard. **“ _Westerosi,_ Season 21, Episode 5:“The Bet”**  
 **Scene 41, Take 1 A-mark.”**

**“Action.”**

Jaime “shifted gears,” squinting into the light of the “oncoming traffic.” He glanced towards Brienne who was huddled in on herself in the passenger seat.

“Why the hells did you go upstairs with him?” he asked roughly. His voice came out too harsh, and Jaime worked to take the edge off of it. “Everyone knows Connington is a major perv.”

“He was nice to me,” Brienne whispered, her voice shaky, and Jaime found himself turning his head towards her.

He laughed a cynical laugh, returning his attention to “the road.” “Damn, you gotta have higher standards than that, Dunc.”

She shrugged. “Not many people are nice to me at this stupid school. You’re not.” Her chin came up mulishly, and Jaime was able to see the hickey painted on her pale neck. “You’re never nice to me.”

“I got you out of there, didn’t I?” Jaime said, letting the annoyance and impatience color his tone. “I’m driving you home, aren’t I? Besides, I may not be the nicest person in the world, but I’m not Connington. I’m not a sadistic asshole hell bent on making fun of you.”

She huffed out a snort of protest. “You think I’m a freak.”

“No I don’t,” Jaime protested, his voice gruff and angry. “I don’t.”

“Oh please, you're an asshole to me every time you see me.”

He grunted in exasperation. “Dunc, I’m an asshole to everybody. I’m an equal opportunity asshole. Besides I hate your brother.”

“I’m not my brother.”

“Yeah, well. Close enough. Same … er... general target.” He waved his hand over in her direction.

“No -- not the same target. Not the same target at all.” She fell silent, her hands playing nervously in her lap.

Jaime kept his eyes trained forward, hands on the steering wheel, letting Roman’s frustration build -- feeling it smouldering hotly in his stomach.

“Did it ever occur to you that the freshman girl who is six foot three may not have the same self-esteem as her brother, the great basketball star of Westerosi High?” Her voice was quiet, soft, defeated.

Jaime side-eyed her, frowning.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe that girl hated herself already? That maybe she wouldn’t need you picking her apart and making awful comments because everything you say already goes through her head like a million times a day?”

He turned to her, a flippant excuse ready on his lips, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Did you ever think that maybe she wouldn’t need your funny one-liners or awful nicknames because people already think she’s a big joke and make bets about her, as if she’s … nothing, not even worthy of kindness and care … ?” She broke off in a sob, putting her shaking hands over her face.

Jaime turned to look at her, his face stricken. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ The frustration had turned to a lump of ash in his gut. She was wounded, bleeding, and all he wanted to do was to help her -- help her and make her pain go away. But the truth of the matter was that he had cut her just as sure as Connington had.

_Wait, not him. Roman had cut her. Roman._

Jaime felt his own eyes start to tear up, as Roman’s guilt overwhelmed him.

_Damn, that was odd. It certainly wasn’t in the script, but, Christ, Tarth was good! She was so damn good. She was making him feel everything._

“I’m sorry,” he rasped out, blinking.

Brienne huffed in disbelief, brushing her own tears from her face in frustration. “Right.”

“I am,” he said again. He glanced back at “the road” and then turned his face towards her. “Really.” His voice cracked.

She looked up at him then, the lights illuminating the blue of her eyes, and suddenly Jaime was lost. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her -- trying to remember his line.

“You’re not a joke,” he said finally, his voice stumbling and hesitant.

_What the hells was going on? Get it together, Lannister._

“What you said earlier,” he tried to explain. “You’re not a joke.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Well, right now, you’re the only one in the whole, stupid school who thinks that,” Brienne replied, looking back down at her hands in defeat.

“I’m …” he broke off. _Shit. What was he trying to say? What was the damn line?_ He sniffed in gruffly, raising his chin. “I’m the only one who matters.”

Brienne snorted, a soft whoosh, glancing up at him through her long, pale eyelashes; and Jaime felt his body react -- a flush creeping over his face to settle in his cheeks.

“I won’t let them laugh at you,” he promised solemnly.

“Good luck with that.”

“No!” he cried, his voice much too loud.

_Damn! Get a handle on yourself, Lannister, for Christ’s sake._

“I swear it. I swear I won’t let them.”

Brienne was silent for a long moment before turning her eyes on him once again. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Roman.”

Jaime could only nod.

He turned his body back towards “the road” and nervously scratched the side of his neck.

_Shit, he was blowing this scene. He was blowing it. But, as hard as he fought, he couldn’t keep Roman’s emotions in check -- he couldn’t keep his own emotions in check._

Beside him, Brienne sighed quietly and leaned back against the passenger seat, closing her eyes -- her body finally giving up its tense vigil, the tightness of her shoulders and limbs unspooling as she settled back against the leather upholstery.

Jaime waited a few beats and then chanced a sideways glance at her. She looked so fragile sitting there in that blasted letterman’s jacket, long fingers playing with the brass snaps, her nails making tiny clicking noises against the metal. He felt a wash of protectiveness and breathed out audibly.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he reached over and gently brushed a strand of pale, blond hair away from her face, lightly tucking it behind the shell of her ear.

It was a completely unscripted moment, but Brienne must have been just as caught up in the scene as he was, because she simply turned her face towards the warmth of his hand and gave him a tired smile so full of trusting gratitude that it made Jaime’s own heart ache.

They stayed suspended there for a beat before Jaime pulled his hand back, clearing his throat roughly and turning his face once again towards “the road.”

 **“Cut,”** the director called, and Jaime closed his eyes.

He didn’t move.

Next to him, Brienne was slowly sitting up, stretching out her legs that had been curled under her protectively. However, Jaime couldn’t move. Didn’t dare move. He sat behind the wheel staring straight ahead, feeling shaky and unsettled.

At some point, he was vaguely aware of Brienne looking at him. However, he couldn’t make himself meet her eye.

_Fuck._

He felt totally exposed. What the hells was wrong with him? He had been in the damn scene, meeting her beat to freaking beat, and then he had totally zoned out and … well, he wasn’t really sure what he had done.

The director pulled Jaime’s door open. “Everything OK in here?”

Brienne nodded. “We’re fine,” she said, speaking for both of them, wiping the remnants of the scene’s tears off of her face and chancing a puzzled glance at Jaime.

“That was…” the director started. He shook his head. “Damn, kids. That was intense.”

“Was it all right?” Brienne asked hopefully.

“Way better than all right. It’s strange. It’s like you two have been acting together for years.”

Brienne made a pleased murmur, and Jaime turned to her.

Something must have come through in his gaze because she colored and looked away.

“Everything OK there, Jaime?” the director asked, perplexed by Jaime’s silence.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m good.”

“You guys want to take a little break before re-shooting?”

“Yeah,” Jaime said hurriedly. “I … uh… need to hit the head.” He scrambled out of the car, lightly pushing the director out of the way and headed to the bathroom.

 _Shit. What the hells was wrong with him?_ He had never been overwhelmed in a scene like that -- not even in that scene where Roman’s father goes off on him and calls him stupid and useless. Why did he feel so shaky? So spent? He must be losing it. And so much for out-acting Tarth. Shit, he had had to work his ass off just to keep up. And he had totally lost it there, at the end.

Once in the bathroom, Jaime splashed cold water on his face, not caring that he was messing up his make-up. He could get a touch-up if need be. The more important thing right now was breaking himself out of whatever fucking loony trance he had fallen under.

_Damn._

He shook his head, droplets of water scattering across the mirror, marking his reflection with clear beads of liquid -- almost like freckles against his golden skin. He thought back to the feel of Brienne’s skin, the brush of his finger across her cheek.

It was those eyes. Her crazy, otherworldly eyes. That’s what had done it -- created that pull, that electric current between them. It was strange. He wasn’t at all attracted to her. She was a child. And massive, for gods’ sake. An annoying little girl trapped in the body of a linebacker. But she had looked at him, and the light had hit her face in a certain way, and suddenly he was drowning, completely sucked into the riptide of the scene -- caught up in a magnetic pull towards her. It was the damnedest thing! The girl must be part sorceress or witch. She claimed to have been raised on Tarth, but maybe she had a bit of the Others in her family lineage. She certainly had the eyes for it -- and the paleness, come to think of it. Maybe that’s where her talent came from -- some sort of old world magic. Gods, whatever it was, Jaime was going to have to figure out a way to match her in their scenes together. He couldn’t be out-acted by a fifteen-year-old, for fucks’ sake.

He took one last look at his face, willing himself to pull it together, before heading off to the make-up chair for a touch-up.

Ten minutes later, he slid back into the driver’s seat of Roman’s car, trying not to look at Brienne who was sitting quietly in the passenger's seat looking at her phone.

_Jesus, she was infuriating. Sitting there acting like she didn’t even know how good she was. Stupid, ungrateful, naive, little kid._

“You OK?”

Jaime turned towards her, her ridiculously blue eyes coming into focus and throwing him off again.

“Of course, I’m OK,” he said gruffly, turning back to face front. “Why wouldn’t I be OK?”

“I don’t know, you seemed kind of…”

“I’m fine, all right,” he gritted out. “Leave it.”

“You were really good,” she said, after a few moments of awkward silence.

“What?”

“In the scene. I liked that you broke the blocking there at the end. You were good.”

“I didn’t…” he said, turning back towards her. She was looking at him warily, as if she were afraid of his reaction.

“Look, can we just not talk for a bit?” I need to get into character, and I can’t do that with your constant interruptions.”

“Sorry.” Her face turned red -- the blush splotchy against her pale skin. “I just thought you were good and wanted to tell you.”

“You told me.”

“Fine,” she said, her tone now annoyed.

“Fine,” Jaime replied, although he knew deep down inside that it wasn’t fine.

_Jesus, what the hell was he going to do?_

**~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

When Jaime texted Brienne the slightly insulting invitation: **“Bored. Come by, if you haven’t anything better to do”** Brienne hadn’t been surprised. In fact, she had been expecting it.

Tyrion had called her last night when she was half-way through her second glass of white wine and eyeballs deep in the new Sharra Arryn thriller she had picked up at the airport on her flight over. Tyrion had been almost giddy at the change he had seen in Jaime after her visit.

Brienne had waved away Tyrion’s praise and warned him not to get too excited. All she had succeeded in doing was convincing Jaime to bathe -- hardly a victory, by any measure. However, Tyrion had seen it as a crucial victory-- a strategic victory -- an important first step in his complicated battle plan to pull Jaime back from the brink.

They were making real progress here, he had told Brienne excitedly. The most progress he had seen from Jaime since the accident. Now they just needed to capitalize on this forward progression, which meant that Tyrion would need to orchestrate another visit, and Brienne would need to launch the next attack.

“You should bring up therapy.”

Brienne snorted. “That should go over well. Tell me, Tyrion, are you trying to get me killed?”

“I know, I know,” Tyrion replied, sighing. “But you only have a few days here. I’m afraid if we leave it too long, Jaime won’t listen.”

“Ah, but you think he’ll listen now, do you?”

“He listened to you about the bath.”

“Tyrion, I basically bullied him into the bath,” Brienne admitted grimly. “Insulted his beauty. And I refuse to bully anyone into therapy.”

“No, no, of course not. Of course not,” Tyrion soothed. “I would never ask you to do that.”

Brienne tiredly ran a hand through her hair. She had forgotten how exhausting being around Jaime could be. “Why does he have such a block against therapy, anyway?”

“We’re Lannisters,” was Tyrion’s terse reply.

“And?”

“And we don’t admit weakness or accept help. It’s bred into us -- fed to us as babes like mother’s milk.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Brienne protested. “Do you really think that your family would have achieved half of what they have achieved without help? Who do you think does all of the work to keep the bloody Lannister Enterprises running? It’s certainly not the three of you.”

“Brienne, the Lannisters are jumped-up egoists with raging superiority complexes. I never said we were smart.” Tyrion exhaled.

Brienne harrumphed and chugged her wine, looking longingly out of the corner of her eye at the Arryn thriller.

“Look, I don’t want to give you the poor, little, rich boy book of hardships,” Tyrion continued, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “but growing up in the family Jaime and I have grown up in has been … well, let’s just say 'damaging' and leave it at that.” He laughed, a short, disparaging laugh. “By all rights, both of us should have been bundled off to therapy years ago. Jaime certainly should have gone after Mother died. But we were simply told to pull ourselves together. To be better. To not dishonor our legacy. My father ...” Tyrion broke off, and Brienne heard the sound of a bottle being opened and a long pour. Perhaps she was not the only one drowning her frustrations in alcohol, despite Tyrion’s premature cry of “victory.” “My father never dealt with the loss of my mother, and he never allowed us to deal with it either. I was just a baby, so I never felt the actual loss of her, only its effects, which were horrifying enough. However, Jaime was seven and a much more sensitive child than I ever was. He was just a kid, but he was made to feel that his grief was a weakness -- that the loneliness and abandonment he felt was a weakness -- that any appeal for comfort was a weakness. So he learned self-preservation -- learned how to repress his emotions, especially around my father. And pretty soon he adopted Tywin’s views as his own. A Lannister doesn’t show weakness. A Lannister never asks for help. A Lannister is strong. Hear us roar, and all that bullshit.”

Brienne let out an exasperated whoosh of breath. “That’s a royally fucked-up definition of strong.”

“I agree,” Tyrion said wearily. “It took me a short go around in a 12 step program and another … er ... personal tragedy to see it, but I agree. And I guess that’s what I’m hoping for Jaime here. That this bloody accident will show him that it’s OK to ask for help. That sometimes it’s the bravest thing to do.”

“Honestly, Tyrion, I still think all of this would be better coming from you, especially as you’ve gone through it.”

“I’ve tried, Brienne. Gods knows I’ve tried. I don’t know if it’s because I am a Lannister, and Jaime doesn’t want to drop his defenses around one of his ilk. Or maybe it’s because he sees me as weak and doesn’t want to go down that same road and end up like his poor, fucked-up brother. Whatever it is, I am not the person for this particular battle. You are. If there is anyone who Jaime thinks of as strong, it’s you.”

“Tyrion, if today wasn’t enough to clue you in, Jaime doesn’t like me at all.”

“It doesn’t matter how much he likes you,” Tyrion protested. “He admires you. What’s more, you challenge him. He won’t run away from any fight you challenge him to -- doesn’t want to appear lacking in front of you.”

“I still think this is going to blow up in my face.”

“It may,” Tyrion acquiesced. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

“Fine,” Brienne grumbled, draining the last of her wine and rooting around for her water bottle. She was sure to have a headache tomorrow, which wouldn’t help at all if she had to face Jaime and talk mental health. “I will bring up therapy tomorrow -- if, in fact, your brother is even willing to get together again. He may very well have had enough of me after the whole bath thing.”

“I’ll make sure it happens.”

“Fantastic,” Brienne sighed. She shook her head, grimly picturing tomorrow’s meeting. “Well, I guess the worst he can do is scream a bit and throw me out. Nothing I’m not used to with him. Gods knows, I’ve had enough practice being on the receiving end of his bullshit.”

“Brienne,” Tyrion said. “You mustn't think…” He broke off, as if searching for the right words. “I do appreciate all of this. Honestly. And I do know how much I am asking -- especially from you, especially considering your history with …”

“It’s fine, Tyrion,” Brienne cut him off, not willing to go down that road after such an exhausting day. And when Tyrion tried to protest, “The truth is that I’m worried about him too. And I would be a pretty terrible person to see him struggling so much and not, at least, try to help.”

Tyrion coughed roughly. “I appreciate it,” he said, his voice thick. “Honestly, Brienne. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

**~~~~~~**

As planned, Tyrion was out of the house when Brienne knocked at the door of Jaime’s flat the next day, two take-away coffees and a bag of pastries in her hand.

Jaime hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t looked happy to see her at all. However, he had let her in, gesturing to the sitting room with his good hand.

She gave him a quick once-over, as she squeezed past him to enter his flat. He had trimmed his beard. It was a little patchy in places, but, on the whole, it was decently shaped and looked somewhat well-kempt. His hair was still long and falling into his eyes, but it was clean and almost aggressively golden. He also seemed to be wearing some subtle brand of cologne, which was a great improvement on his smell from yesterday.

So far he was refusing to make eye contact with her, but at least the previous day’s hostility didn’t seem to be present.

Brienne settled herself on the couch, carefully taking a coffee from the carrier. “Here. I hope it’s still hot.” She held the cardboard cup out to Jaime.

Jaime looked startled but took the proffered cup, looking up at her suspiciously.

He took a cautious sip. “You remembered how I take my coffee?”

“Christ, Jaime, you screamed it at the PAs often enough,” Brienne said shortly, dismissing the begrudging compliment. “I think everyone on _Westerosi_ knows how you take your coffee.”

Jaime rolled his eyes at that, annoyed at how quickly she had brushed away the significance of his observation. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Believe me, you were,” she quipped, opening the bag of pastries and taking out a raspberry filled danish. “Honestly, do you even remember any of their names?”

“Who?”

“The PAs.” She held out the bag to him.

Jaime frowned and waved the bag away. “Should I?” He glared at her testily and took another gulp of coffee. “Do you?” he challenged, raising his chin and nodding at her.

“Of course,” Brienne said, shrugging. “Jerry was the main PA when I started. He was there for a while. Then there was Nance, Bob Foster -- gods, he was a kick in the pants -- and Khalil. Khalil just got married last year. I wasn’t able to attend the wedding because of shooting _Knights_ , but I did send a gift. Flatware, if I remember correctly.”

Jaime’ s chin sank back down to his chest, and he sighed in exasperation. “Tell me, does it ever get lonely up there on that high horse of yours?”

“Jaime, treating people like they are, in fact, people has nothing to do with being morally pompous and everything to do with being a good human. You should try it sometime.”

“Seven hells, woman,” Jaime groaned. “I just wanted to thank you for the godsdamn coffee. Not start a fucking moral argument.”

“Oh. OK then -- proceed.” She waved her hand at him, taking a large bite of danish, raspberry jam oozing onto her fingers.

“Proceed with what?”

_Gods she was all kinds of annoying. He knew he shouldn’t have called her. Stupid Tyrion and his stupid ideas. Although, to be fair, she had brought him coffee. That was quite nice._

“Proceed with your thank you.”

_Was she serious?_

Jaime huffed in annoyance and shook his head. “Well, now I don’t want to.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows and nodded, as if she had just proven her initial point. Jaime was that bad. He very much was that bad. “You’re welcome anyway,” she said smugly, licking the jam off of her fingers.

**~~~~~~**

The conversation had been stilted at first -- Jaime wary and distrustful, and Brienne struggling to keep it light but falling back into defensiveness when challenged. However, after an uncomfortable hour or so, things eased a bit -- Jaime even going so far as to take a few bites of the bear claw Brienne had brought, shooting off some unpleasant comment about the crap food Brienne consumed. However, Brienne had put him in his place by holding up a box of old, half-eaten pizza that she had found crammed under the coffee table and asking him if he really wanted to discuss the nutritional value of their various diets. Jaime had mostly minded his manners after that. Mostly. Still, Brienne couldn’t find a natural segue into the whole therapy discussion.

Jaime’s defenses were out in full force today. He sat stiffly in the armchair, surrounded by a veritable army of throw pillows, as if creating his own barricade out of feathers and expensive upholstery.

Maybe she should try to get him out of this room. Perhaps if she could get him out of the house, she would have more luck.

“We should go out,” she said suddenly, when there was yet another awkward lull in the conversation.

Jaime frowned, hugging his barricade to his chest. “Go out? What do you mean?”

“Well, you see that largish, wooden rectangle over there on the wall?” Brienne said seriously, gesturing to the foyer. “That, Jaime, is called a door, and on the other side of it, there is a great big city with roads and buildings and cars and such. That’s what I mean when I say that we should go out.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Ah, the famous Tarth wit,” he said flatly. “It’s no wonder I’ve missed you so these last ten years.”

Brienne grinned, despite his snarky insult. “Come on. What do you say? Don’t you want to get the hells out of this apartment? When was the last time you went out?”

“I don’t remember,” Jaime said bitterly. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go out.”

“It’s a lovely day.”

“Brienne, it’s rainy and cold,” Jaime replied dully. “Besides, I’m not exactly mobile at the moment.”

“We can use the wheelchair.” Brienne gestured to the foyer. “The one over there by the door.” She pointed to a folded, black, wheelchair leaning against the wall of the entryway.

Jaime’s face tightened. “I will not use that contraption.”

Brienne shrugged. “Well, I guess you can use the crutch, then. However, we won’t be able to go far with you hobbling along.”

“Damn it. I’m not going out,” Jaime said, raising his voice a bit. “Not in the chair -- not with the crutch. I will spare myself the indignity, if that’s all right with you.”

“The indignity?” Brienne mused. “Jaime, you are recovering from a major accident. How is it an indignity to use a wheelchair or a crutch? What are you supposed to use until you heal?”

“Oh please,” Jaime spit out. “Do you know how many people would love to see Jaime Lannister, star of stage and screen, heir to the vast Lannister fortune, shuffling around like a tired, old cripple? Missing a hand, gimpy leg, bedraggled and pathetic? Do you know how much a magazine would pay for that shot?”

“I didn’t see any photographers out there,” Brienne said, frowning. “Besides, people know you were injured. I would think they’d expect you to be recovering.”

“Seven fucking hells, will you just stop all this!” Jaime cried, the vehemence making his voice shake. “I will not go out there and confirm their opinions of me.”

“What opinions?” Brienne asked, perplexed.

“That my career is over. That my looks are gone. That I am tired and crippled and pathetic and old and washed-up.”

Brienne gaped at him. “People don’t think that about you.”

_He had to give it to her. Her defense of him was quite touching. Completely wrong and absolutely naive, but touching just the same._

“Brienne, enough!” Jaime said fiercely. “I don’t want to go out. What’s more, I won’t go out. If you want to go out there so badly, no one is stopping you. In fact, please do.” He grimaced at her, his eyes flinty. “I could do with some peace and quiet.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “You were the one who invited me over.”

“Yes, well. I am finding that I don’t really have the energy for a visit now.” Jaime grabbed another throw pillow and added it to pile on his lap. “Talking takes it out of me these days.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. _He was dismissing her. She had challenged him -- made him uncomfortable, and he was dismissing her. Well fuck that. Maybe she didn’t need a bloody segue after all._

“Speaking of talking …,” she looked up at him, unconsciously setting her jaw for the challenge. “Tyrion thinks you should talk to someone. A therapist.”

She watched as Jaime’s face instantly shuttered. “Tyrion is an idiot.”

“ ** _I_ **think you should talk to someone.”

“Well, if it walks like a duck …” he snarked, gesturing towards her.

“Jaime,” she said patiently, working to keep her voice low and neutral. “This is trauma.”

“What is? This conversation? For once, I completely agree with you.”

“No, you jackass, what you’re dealing with. Your accident. Your amputation.”

Brienne took a centering breath. She would never win this if she let him rattle her. He knew all of her buttons. Was a pro at pushing them. If she had any hope to get through to him, she had to remain calm. “It’s major trauma. You would have never survived your physical injuries without the help of professionals. Why are you so sure you can survive your emotional injuries without help?”

“My emotional injuries?” Jaime said, grimacing in distaste. “Where do you get this shit? Are you even listening to yourself? You sound like one of those snake oil salesmen already. Do you want to know all about my mother? Shall I start calling you Dr. Tarth?”

“No, that’s my dad,” Brienne said calmly, as if she weren’t telling Jaime brand new information. “He’s the psychiatrist of the family.”

“Ah.” Jaime narrowed his eyes calculatingly, surveying her carefully, before nodding. “Your father’s a shrink. That explains so much.”

“What does it explain?”

Jaime laughed. “You! How you always seem to be studying, evaluating -- looking in on life from the outside of it. Sizing people up and finding them wanting, making judgments.”

“Is that what you think therapy is -- making judgments?”

“Gods, listen to yourself. You’re half-way to shrink already. You must have a genetic predisposition to it. Turning people’s statements around until they're talking in circles. Claiming to know a person’s mind just by their responses to ridiculous questions. It’s a racket, Brienne. I don’t need some pompous blowhard with a fake medical degree constantly judging me.”

“Well, I can certainly see why you’d think that would be unnecessary,” Brienne shot back, “since there already seems to be a pompous blowhard constantly judging you.”

“Who? You?” Jaime cocked his head, appraising her. “Well, you’re right about the pompous bit.”

“No, you idiot. You! You’re the pompous blowhard,” she groused, her annoyance breaking through, despite her best efforts.

“I’m not judging myself!”

“Oh save it, Jaime,” Brienne said sharply. “You’ve been judging yourself since the night you lost the hand. ‘You’re ruined. You’re broken. You’re unemployable. You’re unattractive. You’re no longer Jaime Lannister.’ That’s all you! No one else has actually said those things.”

“Yeah, but they think them,” Jaime spit out.

“And you know that how?”

“It’s fucking obvious, Brienne.”

“Well, I find it pretty damn hypocritical that you accuse therapists of falsely claiming to know people’s minds, and yet you think you can do the same bloody thing.”

“No, I …”

“Look,” she cut him off. “You know that I don’t like you, right?”

Jaime stopped his sputtering and stared at her. “Is that a trick question?”

“I don’t, really -- like you. I mean, I care what happens to you, and I don’t want you hurt, but that’s about as far as it goes.”

“Christ, you should really think about becoming a motivational speaker,” Jaime said flatly. “You’re incredibly inspirational.”

“No, no -- just hear me out. I don’t really like you, but even I have never, not for one damn second, thought any of those things about you.”

“Yeah, but you…”

“You’re not ruined,” Brienne interrupted. “Far from it. Look at this flat. Look at yourself.” She gestured towards him where he sat on the couch. “And you’re sitting here in front of me, a whole person. One hand, two hands -- it doesn’t matter. You are a whole, thinking, feeling, breathing person. Nothing’s changed as far as that goes. And despite what you think, your looks were not relegated to your sodding hand, Jaime. In fact, it pisses me off to all seven hells, but I think you may even be more attractive post accident than you were before it.”

Jaime looked at her sharply.

“And you’re certainly employable.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaime growled. “There’s so many goddamn parts for amputees in this fucking industry. However will I choose?”

“Well, jeez, I don’t know if you noticed, Jaime, but your family has a bloody fortune. Write some parts. Pay someone else to write parts. Produce your own movies.”

“You say that like it’s so easy.”

“I never said anything about it being easy, Jaime. I said it’s possible. That’s the reality.” She looked at him levelly. “But it’s a decent reality. Different than before, but still good. You just can’t listen to that stupid voice in your head that’s telling you that it’s all over -- that you’re all over. That voice lies. That voice is dangerous. And that’s what therapy helps with -- recognizing that voice and, if not neutralizing it completely, at least understanding where it is coming from and why it is in your head.”

“You …” he said, gesturing to her. “You’ve gone to therapy, then?”

_Shit, Brienne Tarth? Strong, stoic, unbreakable Brienne Tarth? She never needed anything from anyone -- perfectly content in her own little, competent world of one. Surely she hadn’t needed therapy._

“Jaime, I’m the only living child of a clinical psychiatrist who lost his wife and three out of his four children in a freak boating accident. My entire childhood was one, giant therapy session.”

“Shit. I … uh. I didn’t know,” Jaime muttered, feeling the instant stab of guilt.

_How had he not known this about her?_

“Hells, Brienne, I didn’t know about your family.”

_Gods, what did one say to a revelation like that?_

“Yeah, well, it’s not something I go around sharing. And you never asked.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly overwhelmed by the weightiness of what she had just shared.

_Christ, he really was a self-absorbed prat. Sure, he had lost a hand, but she had lost an entire family._

“Yeah. And I’m sorry about your hand,” she said, seemingly reading his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he murmured, glancing down at his sling and letting his eyes rest there.

“It sucks,” Brienne said gently.

Jaime looked up and met her eyes. “It does.”

She nodded. “Look, Jaime. Say what you want about our history, but we’ve never pulled our punches with each other, so, fuck it, here it goes: I’m worried about you. That’s why I came. That’s why I’m here. You involved me in all of this when you called me from the hospital and said the things you said. And I can’t, in good conscience, pretend that everything’s fine, as much as you want me to. This thing is too big for you to do alone. I know I’m probably not the person you’d choose to help you navigate this, but I’m the one who’s here right now.”

Jaime huffed out a laugh. “And that, right there, is the most ridiculous aspect of this whole godsdamn thing. You’re the one who's here? You’re the one who’s worried about me? Brienne fucking Tarth. It doesn’t make any sense. This whole damn thing just doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s because you’re still listening to that voice, Jaime. It makes perfect sense to me.”

This was crazy. He was sitting here in his living room listening to Brienne Tarth lecture him about therapy. And the craziest part of the whole damn thing was that she _WAS_ starting to make sense. Or maybe she wasn’t making sense at all, and Jaime just liked the fact that she was concerned for him and that she seemed to know what she was talking about. She was capable and competent and wanted to look out for him, despite not really liking him. It was comforting having someone so sure coming to his aid. Comforting and irritating and confusing as all hell.

He shook his head, gazing out of the window at the skyline of King’s Landing. “What if I hate it, though? Therapy? Talking about all this shit? Exposing myself?”

“Well, very few people love therapy. It’s medical treatment, after all -- like getting a wound irrigated or having stitches or taking medicine. And I think you’re just going to have to get used to exposing yourself -- as I’m sure you did when you were in that hospital gown, ass-out for the world to see.” She gave him a wry smile.

Jaime’s worried grimace unfurled slowly into a sly smirk as he turned to her. “Why Brienne Tarth, are you picturing me ass-out lounging on a hospital bed?” He watched her face become pink and splotchy.

“No, actually I’m picturing you on a therapist’s couch,” she replied primly.

“Ooh, kinky girl.” Jaime arched an eyebrow. “Why is it always the quiet ones?”

“Stop,” Brienne’s blush deepened. She looked at him, her expression sincere. “Honestly, Jaime. What would it hurt to try?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he waved her off halfheartedly. “My ego, possibly?”

“Impossible,” Brienne replied gravely. “That thing’s indestructible, and I should know.”

He blinked at her.

“Jaime…” she said again, and suddenly the fight didn’t seem worth it anymore.

“Fine.” Jaime said defeatedly. “I guess I can try it -- therapy. If you think it’s so great. Even though I still think it’s a waste of time and money.”

“Two things in which you are truly lacking.”

He sighed resignedly and gestured to her phone. “All right then,” he harrumphed testily. “Go ahead and call Tyrion. I know you’re dying to let him know that his dastardly plan has worked.” He shook his head. “The little bastard is an evil genius, if I’ve ever seen one. Imagine thinking that the key to getting me to see a shrink would be calling in my arch-nemesis from ten years ago. It’s brilliant in a completely mad, James Bond villainy sort of way.”

“Your arch-nemesis? You make me sound like I have super-powers or something.”

“Well, you do ... sort of. Somehow you get me to do things -- against my better judgement.” He rolled his eyes in acceptance.

Brienne smiled. A real smile. And Jaime found himself almost glad.

“Well, since that’s probably the closest I’ll get to a compliment from you,” Brienne said lightly, “this might be a good time for me to take my leave.” She gathered up her purse and jacket and rose from the couch.

“Hold up,” Jaime cried, suddenly quite put out at the thought of her leaving. “Where are you going?”

_He had agreed to go to fucking therapy for her. The least she could do was to stay and keep him company._

“It’s getting late. I thought I’d head back to the hotel.”

“Oh, I see,” he groused. “Your mission here is done. You’ve succeeded in your quest. Why waste any more time with your poor, broken nemesis?”

“Jaime. It’s not like that.”

“Then prove it. Let’s order some food and watch another film.”

“I thought you wanted me to leave?” Brienne was only just congratulating herself on the fact that Jaime had agreed to therapy without actually melting down and chucking something at her head. The idea that he wanted her to stay was -- well, it was jarring, to say the least. “You really want to hang out?”

“Why not? That documentary on the Andals last night was pretty good. Between it and all of your yammering on about arcane, historical minutia, I actually slept last night for the first time since I can remember.”

Brienne looked at him, affronted. “Are you using me for a sleep aid, Jaime Lannister?”

“Don’t tell me that’s a new thing for you?”

Brienne sighed. “So help me god, if that is another crack about how boring I am, I swear I’m going to …”

Jaime held up his hands in surrender. “Kidding. Kidding. Listen, there’s a decent Thai restaurant down the street. Why don’t I call and order, and you pick the film?”

After a few heavy moments of contemplation, Brienne agreed, and Jaime stupidly felt like weeping in relief.

_Gods, all this talk of feelings and therapy was making him soft. Most likely he needed to eat something. Get his blood sugar levels up into a healthy range so he didn’t feel like he was going to break down at the drop of a hat._

**~~~~~~**

Later, when they had shared a carton of Tom Kha, and Brienne was working her way through an order of Pad Thai, Jaime found himself once again overcome with a strange sense of … calm? … peace? Shit, contentment wasn’t exactly the right word, but something along those lines. It was fucking ridiculous, whatever it was. Didn’t make sense at all. _“But then,”_ he thought, _“Why did it have to make sense?”_ So what if, after all of the horrors he had suffered through these past few months, Jaime felt a bit grounded by Brienne Tarth. After all, even through the worst of their time on _Westerosi_ , when he couldn’t stand the very sight of her, there had always been a strange connection between the two of them -- something oddly solid and fierce at the same time.

“You know,” Brienne mused, jarring him from his thoughts. “You really should hire a cleaner again. Get this place picked up.” She frowned, looking at the detritus of dishes and takeout wrappers and the layers of dust. “It can’t be healthy living like this.”

Jaime sighed wearily. “Gods, woman. You’re never happy, are you?”

“Not true!” She held up the carton of Pad Thai. “This is making me really happy at the moment.” She grinned and took a bite, slurping the noodles up noisily, sauce going everywhere. “It’s just that,” she said over the mouthful of food, “you have such a lovely place. It’s a shame to let it get like this. It should feel comfortable, you know. Like home.”

“Yeah,” Jaime agreed, his voice scratchy.

_Home._

That’s what it was. That’s what he was feeling. This bizarre relief he felt every time he glanced over and saw her here on his couch eating takeaway and watching boring documentaries. Brienne had put her finger on it. She had walked into his house all stern glances and judgmental demands, and suddenly he had felt home for the first time since leaving the hospital.

Not untethered. Not in pieces. Not adrift.

Just … home.

He smiled softly to himself and passed Brienne a napkin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, what a long chapter! I had originally planned it to clock-in at half the ultimate word count. But then, when I was writing it, it absolutely refused to end. I tried, but the characters just had so damn much to say.
> 
> And speaking of having a great deal to say, I've been so touched by the response to this story. It's such a vast, unwieldy tale full of constantly moving pieces and storylines. Sometimes I'm absolutely certain that it only makes sense in my head. Thank you for your constant reassurance and support. I am incredibly grateful. 💖


	10. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime struggles.

**“Sorrow”**

**The National**

**“Sorrow found me when I was young.**   
**Sorrow waited, Sorrow won.**   
**Sorrow, they put me on the pill.**   
**It’s in my honey, it’s in my milk.”**

**~~~~~~**

**One and a Half Months Later:**

Jaime slammed into the flat, throwing his crutch against the coat rack and leaning back against the door, breathing hard.

_Fucking therapy! He hated it -- absolutely hated it!_

He should have quit after the first therapist had proven to be a total quack. Dr. Balon Greyjoy -- renowned psychotherapist and certified loon. The insane nutter had been way more interested in introducing Jaime to the “Old Way” of psychoanalysis than he ever was in helping Jaime with anything.

Jaime had wanted to quit the whole therapy farce after that fiasco, but Brienne had convinced him to try a therapist who came highly recommended from her father. And Dr. Elder had been fine -- good even, except for today.

Today Jaime had wanted to talk to him about Cersei. She was flying in this weekend -- her first visit since he had been released from the hospital; and Jaime was excited and anxious and worried as all hell.

Dr. Elder had seemed amenable to the topic; but then, when Jaime was well into his explanation as to why Cersei hadn’t visited him in months -- trying to explain about her movie and her big break and how seeing Jaime in recovery made her sad, which Jaime understood, really he did, only he missed her so damn much -- the blasted man had started asking questions about Jaime’s mother. About his mother, for Christ’s sake! As if they were suddenly in some ridiculously clichéd, Freudian skit.

And then they had talked about Jaime’s mother, and all hell had broken loose with Jaime crying, and Dr. Elder sitting there placidly watching him break down and murmuring, “Good, good,” every once in a while -- as if all of the blubbering and sniveling and outright sobbing was an Oscar worthy performance Jaime was giving. And then the godsdamn timer had chimed, and Dr. Elder had patted Jaime on the shoulder and told him that he had done some “very good work,” and had sent him on his way with red eyes and a swollen nose and shaky hands -- well, hand.

It was horrible and humiliating, and Jaime was left feeling like a pathetic loser.

And Cersei was coming tomorrow! Tomorrow, for Christ’s sake!

_Jesus! His mother? His fucking mother? Was the old man really that desperate?_

“Ah, brother. You’re back.” Tyrion came wandering in from the study, pausing to give Jaime a puzzled look, as Jaime stood leaning against the door. “Everything OK? Did you drop your crutch?”

Jaime growled out an expletive and half-walked, half-limped to the coat rack to retrieve his crutch. He was getting stronger on his leg but still had to use the crutch for stability.

“Do I dare ask how therapy went?”

“Not if you value your life,” Jaime replied sourly, hobbling to the couch and throwing himself down, his crutch clattering to the floor beside him. “I’m not going back.”

“I see.”

“I’m serious, Tyrion. I’m not going back. You can call up all of my old enemies from childhood to come and bully me into it, but I won’t go back.”

Tyrion clucked sympathetically. “That bad, eh?”

“He wanted to talk about Mother.”

“Ah.” Tyrion cocked his head. “Not a good topic, I take it?”

Jaime let out an exasperated breath. “Honestly, would you want to talk about her?”

“I didn’t know her, Jaime. I’d have nothing to talk about except for the regret I feel from never having met the woman.”

Jaime looked slightly abashed at that. “Yes, well…,” he huffed, “some things are just better not talked about.”

“And yet, Dr. Elder decided not to go with that business motto, did he?” Tyrion went over to the bar and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. “It would make damn original business cards, though, wouldn’t it? _Dr. Elder: Psychotherapist. Some things are just better not talked about_.”

“Shut up,” Jaime growled, not at all in the mood for Tyrion’s teasing. “Therapy is supposed to make me feel better -- make me feel stronger.”

“Not instantly, Jaime,” Tyrion contradicted, his voice light. “Besides, don’t you have to get all the festering shit out into the open in order for things to heal?”

“We’re supposed to talk about the accident -- the amputation -- my career. Not about Mother. That’s not what I’m paying him for.”

“You’re paying him to help you cope, Jaime -- to help you deal with depression and anxiety and trauma.” Tyrion held up the bottle, nodding to Jaime in question; but Jaime waved away the offer.

“About the accident. Not about my childhood.”

“Yes -- and I’m just shooting in the dark here -- but maybe the depression and anxiety and trauma have roots in your childhood.” Tyrion took a large swig of the amber liquid and crossed the room to come and sit on the armchair across from Jaime.

“Gods, you’re as bad as he is,” Jaime grumbled. “You know as well as I do, Tyrion, I didn’t have these problems until after the goddamn car crash.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Are you sure?”

Jaime froze, his eyes narrowing. “What are you implying?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tyrion said, his voice still light. “You know, it is possible that you had some of these problems earlier, and you just masked them well, used other things to distract you from them.”

“Ah I see -- other things? Like alcohol, for instance?” Jaime said pointedly, gesturing to Tyrion.

Tyrion laughed good naturedly. “Touché, mon frère,” he replied, raising his glass in a toast. “Honestly, Jaime, it wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out that most of our current … well, shall we say issues ... stem from how we were raised.”

“Well, I think it’s all bullshit. And I have half a mind to keep my next appointment just so I can tell Dr. Elder that.”

“You should. You should,” Tyrion agreed pleasantly. “I’m sure he’s never heard that argument before from any of his other disgruntled patients who’ve been asked to examine parts of their lives that they find uncomfortable.”

“Oh piss off!” Jaime said in exasperation.

Tyrion grinned, taking another large gulp of whiskey. “In good news, I confirmed Cersei’s arrival time tomorrow and double checked her hotel reservations. Everything’s all set for the return of the ice queen.”

Jaime frowned, and Tyrion had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I still don’t understand why she just doesn’t stay here,” he continued. “I am completely willing to clear out for the weekend and give you two space.”

Jaime sighed. “I tried, but she insisted. She doesn’t want the weekend to be too much for me. I think she still thinks of me as that sad, little invalid I was all those months ago. Doesn’t want to tire me out. I’m hoping, once she sees me, she’ll change her mind.” Jaime frowned. “But you never know with Cersei.”

“Mmm… three months AWOL, and yet she’s still the one calling the shots. How surprising,” Tyrion mused sardonically.

“Don’t start, Tyrion,” Jaime warned, shaking his head.

“Start what, brother?” Tyrion held his hands up in surrender. “Far be it from me to point out how unusual it is to go three months without seeing one’s significant other, especially when said significant other is recuperating from a major accident.”

“Stop.”

“And yet she comes waltzing back into your life for a weekend -- a weekend -- and insists on you putting her up in a hotel. So selfless and nurturing, that one. Always putting others before herself.”

“Tyrion, she’s busy. Besides, I don’t need…”

“Tell me, brother, did Dr. Elder perhaps make a connection between Mother’s death and your determination to love absent and emotionally unavailable women?”

Jaime leaned down and fumbled for his crutch, hauling himself up off of the couch with effort. “You,” Jaime said, pointing to Tyrion with his stump, “can just go right ahead and fuck off. You and Dr. Elder both! I’ve had it with the both of you!” He pivoted on his good foot and started heading off to his bedroom.

“Jaime, Jaime,” Tyrion called after him, his voice contrite. “I’m sorry. I am. Don’t go. Stay and talk, brother. You should talk to someone when you’re upset.”

“I don’t want to talk to you!” Jaime called back testily. “And I don’t want to talk to Elder.” He wrenched open his bedroom door. “And before you even suggest it, I don’t want to talk to Brienne. So don’t call her or text her or nag her into calling me. I’ll call her when I damn well want to call her!”

**~~~~~~**

Jaime waited twenty minutes before calling Brienne.

The phone rang five times and then went to voicemail.

Cursing, Jaime called again.

This time, on the third ring, Brienne picked up. “Christ, Jaime. What?”

“Well, hello to you too, Tarth. It’s so lovely to hear your dulcet tones. Has anyone ever told you your phone etiquette sucks?”

“Piss off, Lannister,” Brienne huffed indignantly. “I’ve been shooting an incredibly technical fight scene for three days now. I’m covered in bruises and welts; I’m pretty sure I just blew out my knee; and I’m completely and utterly exhausted. So you’ll just have to excuse me if I’m not my normal, sparkling self.”

“Right,” Jaime said tersely. “I won’t keep you, then. I just wanted to let you know that I hate Dr. Elder, and that I am quitting therapy for good.”

“Fine,” Brienne grunted.

“Fine!” Jaime cried.

And then she hung up on him.

_She fucking hung up on him! How dare she hang up on him! What the hells was she playing at?_

He called her back immediately. She picked up on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“I …” Jaime inhaled, his anger fading as quickly as it had come. “I didn’t mean it,” he finally mumbled despondently.

“I didn’t think you did.”

“It was just a really upsetting session today.” He rubbed his left hand down his tired face and collapsed back against the headboard of his bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

After Brienne’s visit, Jaime had taken to calling or texting Brienne once or twice a week to ‘check-in.’ He had used the excuse that, if he had to suffer through therapy because of her, the least she could do was to listen to him bitch about it. And amazingly Brienne had agreed. Sometimes their conversations were short and volatile, with Jaime snarking at Brienne, and Brienne telling him in no uncertain terms to fuck off. However, lately, their conversations had been friendlier -- deeper -- more edifying. And Jaime often had to stop himself from calling and texting her more frequently just to get her perspective or to hear her insights or to let her talk him down from whatever ledge he happened to be on that day. Jaime had tried to explain it to Tyrion -- the fact that he and Brienne weren’t exactly friends, but they weren’t exactly not friends, either. Tyrion had laughed at Jaime and made some crack about Jaime’s self-awareness. However, Jaime didn’t know how else to describe it -- this cautious truce that he and Brienne had both willingly entered into. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working thus far.

“I would,” Jaime said, his voice rough. “If you think you have it in you.”

Brienne gave a low chuckle. “Yeah, sure. Let me just get some ice for my knee, and I’m all yours.” He heard her shuffle, as she made her way into another room or, more likely, into another section of her trailer. He heard the refrigerator door open.

“Did you really blow out your knee?”

“No, but I twisted it pretty badly, trying to avoid being hit by a bloody morning star, if you can believe it. The trainer looked at it already. He says I just need to ice it and rest.”

“Maybe you should stop doing your own stunts?”

“That’s the best part of my job,” Brienne grumbled.

Jaime heard the sound of rustling and then a groan from Brienne, as she settled what he assumed was a bag of ice on her knee. “OK. Tell me about your session.”

“It was pretty awful,” Jaime said, closing his eyes at the memory. “Not at first. At first we were just talking about normal stuff -- about Cersei. But then Dr. Elder started asking about my mother, and then everything went to shit.”

“What do you mean ‘went to shit’?”

“Crying, sobbing, blubbering -- you name it.” Jaime groaned. “It was like I was watching myself on stage completely breaking down, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

“Why would you want to stop it?” He could hear Brienne shift, the plastic bag of ice crinkling.

“I was out of control, Brienne. It was embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that before -- certainly not about my mother. Christ, she died so long ago.”

“Sounds like you were overdue, then,” Brienne said pragmatically.

Jaime inhaled, trying to shake the memory of the day’s session out of his head. “Overdue or not, it was embarrassing.” He paused, biting his lip in thought.

“How old were you when you lost…?” he trailed off.

“My family?” She sounded so casual. So matter of fact. “I was eight.”

“So around the same age as I was.”

_She seemed like she was coping well. Not crying like a baby like he had. Hells, he hadn’t even known that Brienne had lost anyone until recently. But then that was Brienne, wasn’t it? Stoic to a fault._

“How did you cope?”

“A lot of tears. A lot of anger. A lot of therapy.” Brienne sighed. “Gods, so much therapy. My dad had me in grief counseling, group therapy, transition circles, even primal therapy for a bit. There was a good year there where all I did was cry.”

“You were allowed to cry then?”

“Allowed?”

“Well, encouraged?”

“Jaime, it’s grief. Tears are just part of it.”

“Yeah… of course. Of course you are right.” Jaime chuckled nervously. He felt almost embarrassed, as if he had answered incorrectly in class.

“How did you cope, then?” Brienne asked, after a moment too long of silence.

“I don’t remember much of it. I was sent away shortly after she died. Boarding school at Crakehall.” Jaime struggled to keep his voice light but couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder at the mention of his dark years away.

“Do you remember her funeral?”

“I remember spilling cocktail sauce on my suit and then spending the rest of the day with my hand over my heart trying to hide the stain from my father,” Jaime admitted. In truth he didn’t remember the ceremony or burial at all, only the reception afterward.

“Did it work?”

“Yes, he didn’t notice me at all.”

“Oh, Jaime,” Brienne said softly. She sounded so sad for him.

“No, no,” he protested. “That was a good thing. I didn’t get in trouble.”

“Jaime. You were seven -- at your mother’s funeral. It was not a good thing that your father didn’t notice you.”

Jaime laughed a short, harsh laugh. “You haven’t met my father.”

Brienne inhaled a long breath. “Jaime, someone should have been there for you. If your father couldn’t be, he should have made sure someone else was. You shouldn’t have had to go through your grief alone. You were a child.”

“Yes, well, I suppose he didn’t know what to do. My mother had just died, leaving him with a seven year old and a colicky newborn with special needs.”

“I understand that,” Brienne said. “But he was also an adult. And you were a child. Someone needed to take care of you. Someone needed to be there for you -- to give you care and compassion. To let you know that everything was going to be OK.”

“Even if everything wasn’t going to be OK?” Jaime tried to joke.

“Especially if everything wasn’t going to be OK.”

Brienne was quiet a moment.

“Jaime, it’s no wonder that your session today was so emotional. It sounds like you’ve been holding a lot in for a very long time. And today you found a place that was safe enough to let it out.”

Jaime felt his eyes start to tear up, and he blinked rapidly. _This was ridiculous._ He had cried more today than he had since the night he was told he was going to lose his hand.

“Do you ever feel …?” he broke off.

“Do I ever feel what?”

“It’s just that sometimes I can’t help feeling that I’m destined to lose everything that’s important to me. My mother. My hand. My looks. My career.”

“Jaime, you haven’t …”

“I don’t think I can cope with losing anything else, Brienne,” he said, his voice thin and quiet.

“I know, Jaime,” she said solemnly. “I know.”

“Do you?” he mused, clearing his throat and rubbing at his tired eyes. “Well, I suppose after everything you’ve gone through, you probably do.”

“Look,” Brienne said. “I’m not one to sugar coat anything, as you well know. But if there’s one thing that I’ve learned going through what I’ve gone through, it’s that you’re always stronger than you think you are. Truly.”

“Even me?”

“Even you.”

“I think it fucked me up, though.”

“What did?”

“My mother’s death.”

“Fucked you up how?”

“Well, the good doctor thinks it gave me abandonment issues and a crippling inferiority complex.”

“Inferiority?” Brienne considered, her voice thoughtful.

“I know -- ironic, isn’t it?” Jaime tried to joke. “He seems to think I overcompensate by playing the part of a narcissistic asshole.”

“Did he really say that?”

“Not in so many words … but he thinks it.”

“Jaime, are you projecting your own judgments onto people again?” Brienne’s tone was stern.

“Shit, woman. Stop diagnosing me,” Jaime growled, sitting up challengingly. _The bloody woman was like a broken record._ “I’m not projecting or catastrophizing or sublimating or any of that psycho-babble. I’m simply talking to you about my session.”

Brienne gave a short sniff of impatience. “And I’m not diagnosing you,” she retorted sharply. “I’m simply calling you out on your bullshit. If you want to talk to a fawning sycophant who simply agrees with everything that comes out of your mouth, call someone else.”

Jaime grunted out a begrudging laugh. “Honestly, I should just stop paying Elder and start paying you. Only Elder is a whole lot nicer.”

“Many are,” Brienne said flatly.

“I think he likes me better than you do.”

“Does he now?”

“Yes, he actually seems happy to see me and tells me I am doing good work.”

“You are doing good work, Jaime,” Brienne said carefully. “You know that, don’t you?”

Jaime hummed noncommittally. “But really, you like me now, don’t you?” he asked, swiftly changing the subject to something safer. He had had enough tears and confessions today to last him a lifetime.

“What?”

“You said you didn’t like me. Before. When you were here at my flat. Do you now? Like me? I mean, you keep taking my calls. That has to mean something.” He tried to keep the edge of neediness out of his voice but didn’t quite succeed.

After a moment of silence, Brienne cleared her throat. “I admire what you’re doing, Jaime. Like I said, it’s difficult -- this whole process.”

“So you don’t really like me.” Jaime tried not to feel too let down by her answer. Brienne Tarth was never one to be effusive with her praise. “You’re just a sucker for a come-back story -- a good, old-fashioned redemption arc?”

“Christ, Jaime,” Brienne said tiredly. “You and your damn projecting.” She sighed in resignation. “Gods, fine … you’re not as horrible as I once thought, OK?”

Jaime couldn’t help the grin that broke out on his face. “Not as horrible? Aw, Tarth. Look at you gushing so romantically. Better watch out or I may think you’ve been bewitched by the Lannister charm.”

“An oxymoron, if I’ve ever heard one.”

Jaime laughed, and Brienne grunted a displeased grunt.

“Keep it up, Lannister, and I’ll take it all back.”

“Too late,” Jaime teased. He sat back against the headboard of his bed, looking at the wall that held his flat-screen. “You know, Tarth. I’ve been watching your show.”

“ _Knights_? Really?” Brienne sounded surprised. “It doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”

“What? A show about space knights? How is that not my kind of thing?”

“Stop it,” she said flatly. “I’m too tired for your shit, Lannister.”

“You’re pretty good with a sword.”

“Lots of training.”

“Yeah, well, remind me never to get you mad.”

“An impossible feat,” she countered dryly. “Dr. Elder said that it was important for you to set _realistic_ goals during this time of recovery.”

Jaime laughed again. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a love interest. On the show, I mean. Tell me, is it logistically difficult kissing someone so much shorter than you are?”

“I did it with you for years.”

“Damn, you wound me, Tarth!” Jaime cried in mock hurt. “And I’m not that much shorter than you, as you well know. An inch at most.”

“Kissing is kissing, Jaime. You know that. It’s part of the job. It’s all about the lighting and the camera angles, anyway.”

“Such a romantic,” he teased. “So you don’t swoon every time you and this pretty boy go at it? That kiss in the snow storm looked pretty intense. Looked like you both were well into it.”

“That, Jaime, is why it’s called acting,” Brienne explained patiently. “You see, you pretend to like someone -- to be attracted to someone. That’s what I used to do with you. But,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “it’s all just pretend.”

“Hardy har har, Brienne,” Jaime deadpanned. “Speaking of --- do you ever go back and watch our stuff?”

“ _Westerosi_? Are you insane? I’ve tried to block all of that out of my memory.”

“We were good together,” Jaime insisted.

Brienne was silent.

“On screen, I mean,” he tried to explain, defensiveness creeping into his tone. “I’ve been watching all the old episodes. We were damn good. Even you have to admit that.”

“What I have to do is go to bed,” Brienne said, swiftly changing the topic. “I have an incredibly early call tomorrow morning, and I think my knee is frozen solid.” Jaime heard the sound of shifting plastic.

“Right,” Jaime sighed. “I should probably go too. Cersei’s flying in tomorrow. Staying for the weekend.”

“Ah, well, you should enjoy that,” Brienne said blandly.

“Don’t sound so thrilled, Tarth.”

“I don’t have to be thrilled, Jaime. She’s not coming to see me,” Brienne replied -- and then under her breath, “Thank gods.”

“Well, I am thrilled,” Jaime said, the aggravation making him sound almost angry.

_Gods, why did no one want to talk about the fact that his girlfriend was coming to visit, after three damn months? It was a huge milestone in his recovery. And no one was excited about it. Not Dr. Elder. Not Tyrion. Not Brienne._

“You certainly sound it.”

“I haven’t seen her in months,” he insisted. “I’m beyond thrilled.”

“Jaime, you don’t have to convince me of anything,” Brienne replied shortly. “I believe you.”

Jaime grimaced. “Well, all things considered, I wouldn’t expect you to approve, anyway,” he said sourly.

“Why in Seven would you need my approval?”

“I don’t … I just … I mean why wouldn’t I be excited that my girlfriend was coming to stay with me for the weekend?”

_Gods, she was pissing him off with her fucking judgmental tone. She was never happy -- well, never happy with him … or for him ... or whatever._

“Are you asking me?” Brienne shook her head. “Honestly, Jaime, I’m not following this part of the conversation. Is there something you want from me?”

“Forget it. Go to sleep. Have a good day tomorrow at work,” Jaime said grumpily.

“All right. I will. Enjoy your weekend.”

“Oh, I will,” he said emphatically -- selling it just a little too hard. “I plan to.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Night, Jaime.”

“Sweet dreams, Tarth.” And then before she could hang up, “And take care of that knee, will you? Maybe go see a doctor. Get a second opinion. Better to be safe, you know. Take it from someone who’s had to use a fucking crutch to get around for the last few months. I don’t know any doctors in Winterfell, but I could ask Tyrion ...”

“Good night, Jaime.”

“Good night, Brienne.”

**~~~~~~**

  
**Two Days Later:**

Unfortunately, the visit wasn’t going at all as planned.

Jaime sat back against the couch, hefting his bad leg up to brace it on the coffee table, as he listened to Cersei open yet another bottle of wine in the kitchen. The third, but then who was counting? He had joined in at first, managing a glass and a half before his stomach had warned him quite stridently that it was time to stop. But Cersei had kept going. And apparently she was still going.

No, the visit, thus far, had been … disappointing.

Oh Cersei was as beautiful as he remembered her -- soft and glowing and smelling so damn good. In fact, his body had broken out into goosebumps the minute she had first walked into the room, the cloud of her spicy perfume wafting its way to him before she did, setting his nervous system on fire.

Honestly, in those first heady minutes, Jaime could have cried from the relief of seeing her -- of touching her -- of the feel of her cool, smooth lips against his cheek. However, after those sweet, initial moments had passed, the reunion had seemed strained -- like the end of Christmas morning when you are forced to face the sad fact that maybe, just maybe, the reality of the occasion didn’t really live up to the months of anticipation.

It was just that they couldn’t quite find their rhythm together.

Cersei was all smiles and laughter and charm whenever they talked about her film or the cast or the numerous parties she had been attending during her time in Dorne. However, she fell quiet when anything having to do with Jaime’s health and recovery was mentioned. She seemed nervous and uncomfortable -- ill at ease around him.

She hadn’t looked at his arm at all, other than to ask when it would be healed enough to be fit with a prosthesis. And she took great care to always position herself on his left side.

Aware of her uncomfortableness, Jaime had tried to keep his stump hidden as much as possible, thanking all seven gods that the weather in Kings Landing was cool enough to warrant wearing long sleeves. But even then, she barely touched him.

Before Cersei’s visit, Jaime had been worried about the eventual physicality that most certainly would be involved with reuniting with his girlfriend.

Since the accident, his libido had been low to nil, which was a strange state of being for Jaime, who normally had a rather robust sex drive. His GP had said that it was normal. His body was still recovering from major trauma, and the medication he was on often … well, it often depressed things. Jaime had worried about it. He had worried about it a lot. After all, it had been three months since he had seen Cersei. Surely she would be expecting something; and he’d have to rise to the task, both figuratively and literally. However, so far, the most they had shared were a few kisses and awkward, one-armed (at least on Jaime’s part) cuddles. Yesterday, Cersei had made the excuse that she was coming down with something and didn’t want to get Jaime sick. Today -- well, today she had started drinking early and had shown no evidence of stopping.

“Darling, are you sure you don’t want a glass of this?” Cersei called from the kitchen. “Say what you will about your brother, but the little tyrant has fantastic taste in wine.”

“No, I’m good, thank you,” Jaime called back.

“I’m going to get into the leftovers from dinner. Do you want me to make you a plate?”

Jaime sighed, his stomach turning. “No, no. I’m fine.” He closed his eyes tiredly.

_Christ, this was exhausting. Not at all like he had thought the weekend was going to go. Not at all like he had planned._

His phone buzzed where it lay on the coffee table, and Jaime leaned forward to pick it up.

**Ossie: Hope you are having fun, beautiful. Miss you lots. XXO**

_What?_

Jaime glanced over to the couch cushion next to where he was sitting, where his phone actually lay.

He looked back at the phone in his hand. “Cersei, who is Ossie?”

“Pardon?” Cersei came back into the sitting room with a plate of food and a huge goblet of wine, the opened bottle tucked under her arm.

“Ossie? Who is he? Apparently he misses you … lots.”

Cersei’s eyes flashed, but she composed her face into a neutral expression, giving Jaime a placating grin. “You know Ossie. Osmund Kettleblack. He has a small part in my movie. Don’t you remember meeting him at that awards show we went to months ago? The one we had to fly all the way to Essos for?” She set the plate and bottle down on the coffee table.

Jaime frowned. “Can’t say that I do.”

_What the fuck was going on here? Was this why Cersei was acting so distant?_

Cersei shook her head. “Well, he’s an actor -- actually a decent one, unlike some of the others on this project. Totally and completely gay.” She smiled a knowing smile. “Ossie’s been my confidant on set this whole shoot -- looking out for me, making sure that I’m protected and well taken care of.” She slipped her hand into Jaime’s, deftly taking back her phone. “I’ll introduce you to him, if you ever come out to visit.”

“He’s gay, then?” Jaime asked stiffly.

Cersei laughed, putting her wine down on the coffee table. “Don’t tell me you are jealous, darling?”

“Well he signed off with XXO, what am I supposed to think?” Jaime groused.

Cersei smiled and moved closer to him, throwing one knee over his legs so that she was effectively straddling him. “Jaime, my love. You’ve been mine since we were kids. You know that you are the only one for me.” She sank down slowly until she was sitting in his lap, her hair falling forward into Jaime’s face in soft, perfumed waves.

Jaime blinked up at her, instantly overwhelmed but still trying to process the last few minutes.

“Hmm… you still look doubtful,” Cersei purred, trailing her long, scarlet-painted nails up Jaime’s shoulders and neck, wrapping her fingers against the base of his skull. “I suppose I will just have to convince you, then.” She brought her mouth to his and kissed him.

If there were one thing that Cersei Baratheon was an expert at, it was kissing. She was really, really good at it. Tonight, her mouth tasted like red wine and spicy Pentoshi food, and Jaime felt desire shoot through his body like an electric current the moment her warm, smooth tongue twisted with his.

All too soon, Cersei broke away from his mouth and started nipping at his neck, nibbling and biting and soothing with the flat of her talented tongue until Jaime couldn’t remember what they had even been arguing about at all.

Mesmerized by her movements, Jaime turned his face to kiss her temple. She smelled so good and her skin tasted like it used to -- sharp and bright and alive. His fingers flexed against the couch, impatient to re-familiarize themselves with the curves of her body.

She hit a particular spot on his neck, and Jaime groaned, bringing his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, feeling her tense in response.

_Shit._

Jaime immediately pulled his arms back down.

_The stump. Of course, she wouldn’t want the stump touching her. Gods, he was an idiot._

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything.

“It’s fine, darling. It’s fine,” Cersei said, but her smile was stiff. She bent her head and resumed her assault on his neck, licking and biting. However, there was now a desperation to her ferocity, as if she were suddenly playing a role.

Then, before Jaime could process anything, she was fumbling with his belt, shoving her hand down his pants to grab him, as her mouth continued to work on his neck.

“Gods. Cersei,” he moaned.

He wanted her so much. He could taste it -- the desire -- like a food he couldn’t quite get his mouth around.

Her hand was cool and firm and sure, stroking and gliding, and Gods he fucking wanted. Wanted so much. However, his body apparently wasn’t getting the message, or it was hell-bent on betraying him -- because the more desperate her motions became, the more his body started to contract and shrink, retreating in on itself.

“Cerse,” he muttered. “Cersei. I ... don’t … I can’t...”

She redoubled her efforts, her movements almost sloppily manic.

Jaime felt the flush of shame wash over him, as he willed his stupid, broken body to respond.

_Shit. Please. Please. Don’t take this away too._

Finally, when he could take it no more, he pushed away her hand, pulled it from his pants. “Cersei stop! Please. Just … Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, looking up into her cloudy eyes.

She blinked at him.

“It’s the medication,” he tried to explain. “The pills. They mess me up. This is just one of the more charming of the side effects.”

She nodded at him stiffly and pulled herself off of his lap, picking up her wine glass and draining it in one gulp.

“Believe me,” Jaime pleaded, his voice rough. “I want you.” He reached out his good hand to touch her hair, but she moved away from him. “Gods, Cerse, I want you so much.”

“Obviously,” she replied flatly.

“Come on, Cersei. Don’t be like that,” Jaime cajoled.

She got up to pour more wine. “Like what?”

“Well, for one, how about laying off the wine, for a start,” Jaime couldn’t help himself from grousing, feeling the frustration coursing through his bloodstream.

“Oh, it’s the wine that’s the problem is it? It’s the wine that’s getting in the way of your … performance?”

“No. I told you. It’s the medication,” he gritted out. “It’s the godsdamn medication. I’m still recovering, you know. It’s been a really rough road, Cersei. Really rough. With the hand and the mobility issues and the meds and trauma and missing you.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty, Jaime?” Her eyes narrowed.

“No, no. I’m just trying to explain that it’s been difficult. I’m not how I was,” he said, and then more softly, “I don’t know if I will ever be again.”

Her face softened at that, and she came to sit by him. “Oh, Jaime, don’t say that. Don’t say that, my love.” She moved closer, curling her arm around his left bicep and moving her face to his shoulder. “You will be. You will be everything you once were, darling. I know that you will.”

He smiled at her, trying to keep the panic he felt at her words hidden behind a reassuring smile.

She kissed his cheek, nuzzling his stubble with her nose. “But for now, I think I should go back to the hotel and get everything packed up for tomorrow morning.” She ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward to kiss his temple. “Let you get some rest.”

“You don’t have to go,” he said, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. “You could stay. We could watch something or just talk...” She was leaving tomorrow, and he felt like maybe he could salvage something out of the night, if he could just convince her to stay.

However, she had already peeled herself off of the couch and drained the last of her wine. “No, no, my darling. You need your rest so that you can get better. But, I will see you tomorrow. We will have a lovely breakfast together before my flight. How does that sound?”

“Great,” he said, although his heart was pleading with her not to leave. “That sounds great.” He pasted on a false smile and, through smarting eyes, watched her gather her things.

**~~~~~~**

When Cersei had gone, and Jaime had changed out of his dinner clothes and into his normal uniform of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he flipped on the television, trying to distract himself from the shambles of the night. If he thought about it too much, he would cry; and the last thing that he wanted to do was to break down yet again.

What a fucking shitshow of a week!

He scrolled through the menu of endless television channels. It was Saturday night, and Brienne’s show should be playing on the Syfy channel.

After a minute, he found the station, and Brienne’s face flashed across the screen, worried and tense. It was half-way through the week’s episode, and Brienne seemed to be in an antechamber of the spaceship involved in a heated discussion.

The pretty-boy toff playing her love interest, this Ser Brynden the Brave or whatever the hells he was called, was giving her the googly eyes yet again. He was really playing up the whole besotted knight thing, wasn’t he? Shit, the little bastard was going to chew a hole in his lip if he didn’t stop biting it. And Brienne’s character was eating it up, which was funny because, in real life, pseudo-sexy crap like that didn’t affect her at all. Jaime should know.

Jaime’s phone buzzed, and he checked it distractedly. No -- not Cersei. Just Tyrion sending a picture of ... damn, was that an eyeball? An olive? Whatever. It was nothing he had to respond to right now. Jamie chucked his phone on the couch and turned back to the television.

_Holy shit._

Jaime’s mouth fell open, and he gaped at the screen.

_Was Brienne topless?_

_Surely not._

_Brienne Tarth?_

All the good bits seemed to be shaded in shadow but, hells, those were indeed her collarbones -- and was that the top curve of her breast peeking out from the cross of her arms?

Jaime let out a slow, careful breath, blinking rapidly at the television screen. He reached over to turn up the volume, just as Brienne was speaking.

“I know my form is not soft … womanly.”

“Understatement,” Jaime muttered snarkily, ego still bruised from Cersei’s visit. However, despite his protest, Jaime felt a definite heat settle in his neck and face, as the camera panned over the definition of lean muscle making up Brienne’s bare back.

“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on,” Ser Brynden answered.

Jaime cocked his head at that, but Brienne beat him to his objection.

“Stop, Ser. You swore you would be honest with me.”

“And I keep that vow,” Ser Brynden said, reaching out a hand to gently peel Brienne’s arms away from her chest.

_Good god! Were they going to show…?_

A flush ran over Brienne’s neck and the upper part of her chest. And Jaime suddenly found himself quite impressed that she could still blush on cue. Very, very impressed.

“Look, right here.” The actor playing Ser Brynden ran his fingertips softly along Brienne’s shoulder. “Do you know how imposing these shoulders are when you have donned your armor? I have seen seasoned knights pale to see the breadth of them.”

Brienne let out a quiet huff of protest; and Jaime watched enthralled.

“And here,” Brynden ran his hand down her bicep, pulling her forearm up with his other hand.

“Do you see how your arm flexes, how the muscle pulls and tightens?” He thumbed her bicep. “It’s enough to leave me breathless, when we are sparing.”

Brynden’s hand moved up to grasp Brienne’s long fingers, his own grip sliding along each digit until he reached her fingertips. “And these?” He brought her hand up, kissing the pads of her fingertips, dragging them across his mouth to catch on his lower lip. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a womanly form when these hands are so gentle they can stir my very heart with their touch.”

Brienne shivered and bit her lip, her breath quickening.

On the couch, Jaime felt his own breath pick up as, impossibly, impossibly, he began to stir.

The actor dropped his hand to Brienne’s hip. “And this,” he said, the strain of his voice evident. “This, I think, is a secret weapon you keep hidden. When you are wearing armor, all this is disguised.” He slid his hand up to palm the curve of her waist, trailing his fingertips over her pale skin, the tender redness of what looked to be a healing wound.

“This valley, this bend, this softness. I think it’s some old magic that you keep concealed. Dangerous magic that only the luckiest of men will ever see.” Slowly, maintaining eye contact with Brienne, he sunk to his knees and moved his mouth to her hip bone that was jutting out just above the tie of her breeches, his tongue darting out to taste the skin.

Brienne startled, grasping his hair with the fingers of her right hand. She gave a sharp inhale, yanking him roughly back up by his hair to face her, her eyes alight.

 _Christ!_ Jaime had to remind himself to breathe, as he felt himself instantly harden.

_Damn, where was Cersei now?_

_His body remembered! It fucking remembered! If only she were here. Here with him now. He’d show her that he was back._

_He was back!_

_Thank all seven of the fucking gods-- he was back!_

Ser Brynden’s hand slid from Brienne’s hip to the flat, white planes of her stomach, tracing two fingertips up her rib cage until his palm came to rest on her breast, shaded in darkness for the TV audience.

Brienne’s lips fell open, her eyes hooded and heavy.

Jaime held his breath.

“And here,” Brynden said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Don’t tell me your form is not womanly. Don’t tell me you have no softness -- for then, my lady, I would call you liar.”

Brienne blinked, glancing down at his hand on her breast. She looked back at him intently, the blue of her eyes dark and liquid. “I told you, Ser, I am no la…”

He surged forward, his mouth swallowing her protest.

 _“Fuck,”_ Jaime breathed out, as he watched them consume each other in a torrent of lips and hands and teeth.

_Godsdamn it._

Heart pounding, Jaime brought his hand to fumble at the drawstring of his pants.

_Christ, he just needed … well, he needed Cersei. However, this would have to do. It would do until he could see her again. He just had to get these damn pants off. Then he could ..._

Not daring to take his eyes off of the screen, Jaime watched as Brynden grasped Brienne’s long leg, hauling it up against his hip and pushing himself into her. She clung on to him for dear life, as they fell back against the wall with a heavy thud and slid roughly down to the floor of the chamber, a tangle of limbs and gasps and moans.

_Seven hells! These stupid, fucking laces. If only his fingers would…Why the hells was this so .... Shit._

Suddenly, Jaime felt his stomach turn to stone, as he looked down to his lap where his hand was struggling with his drawstring. Only ... there was no hand. No fucking hand at all. Instead, his stump, scarred and puckered and red, pushed blindly at his crotch, flopping uselessly against his fading erection like a dying fish.

He closed his eyes. Sickened.

It was repulsive.

Nauseating.

Like something out of a campy, low-budget, horror movie.

Barely aware of the moans and sighs coming from the television screen, Jaime felt himself once more grow soft and withered and useless.

_He wasn’t back._

_He wasn’t back at all._

_There was no coming back from this._

_Why had he thought he even could? Stupid, crippled, old fool that he was._

On screen, Ser Brynden had pushed Brienne down onto the hard surface of the floor and was slowly running his mouth along her freckled skin, while the background music swelled in a loud climax.

Jaime looked back to the screen in time to see Brienne, face bathed in soft light, flexing her fingers against the cold metal of the chamber floor, as she gazed towards the camera, the blue of her eyes glowing in the half-light. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s… yes.”

Jaime put his head down and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The National recorded “The Rains of Castamere” for the "Game of Thrones" soundtrack. Check it out. And as long as you’re there, check out Chapter 10’s song “Sorrow,” which is my fav (Gwen voice: fav. Say fav). 🤣
> 
> Thanks again for your wonderful support. I can't tell you what a difference it makes. You are all so lovely! 💖


	11. The Denial Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ain’t just a river in Egypt.

**“The Denial Twist”**

**The White Stripes**

**“So now you’re mad, denying the truth,**   
**And it’s getting in the wisdom in the back of your tooth.**   
**Ya need to spit it out in a telephone booth**   
**While you call everyone that you know,**   
**And ask them, where do you think she goes,**   
**Oh ya, where do you suppose she goes, oh?”**

**~~~~~~**

**One Month Later:**

“I feel like it’s one step forward and seventeen steps back,” Tyrion sighed into the phone, pulling out the recliner lever and settling back, phone in one hand, scotch in the other.

“What’s he done this time?” Brienne asked wearily. It had been another long day on set, and she was bone tired. She had almost let Tyrion’s call go to voicemail. After all, she had just spoken to the man two damn days ago. What could have happened in two days that was worth a phone call? What could have happened full stop that was worth a phone call? However, her conscience had gotten the better of her -- yet again.

She couldn’t help but notice the irony of the situation. When she had flown back to see Jaime all those months ago, she had assumed it would be a one-time thing -- a tiny toe-dip into the vast and murky Lannister pool. However, she really should have minded the water and those sneaky Lannister rip tides -- for not only had the phone calls with Jaime continued regularly, but now Tyrion had taken to contacting her two or three times a week under the guise of a “weekly” consult -- mostly about Jaime, but sometimes about other things as well.

“It’s more like what he hasn’t done,” Tyrion replied, not noticing or simply choosing to ignore the exhaustion lacing Brienne’s tone. “He’s still going to therapy, and he’s still keeping up the hygiene, for the most part. However, aside from that, he’s not doing much of anything. He spends most of his time locked in his room ‘resting,’ as he likes to call it; but it’s really just staring blankly at the walls. For a while there, he was getting out every so often. But this last month, he’s been a literal shut-in, aside from his sessions with Dr. Elder.”

“Well, at least he’s still going to therapy.”

“Yes, but his mood has been just awful, Brienne. He’s back to the sullen, zoned-out, charming, little wight that he was when he first came home from the hospital.”

“Really?” Brienne let out a surprised noise. Jaime had been subdued the last time she had spoken to him, but nothing resembling Tyrion’s description

“He doesn’t seem like that in your phone conversations with him?”

“Well, no. But we really haven’t had many of those lately,” Brienne admitted. “Work’s been intense, and, as you know, my hours are currently ridiculous. I’ve returned his messages, but Jaime doesn’t always call me back.” She scratched the bridge of her nose contemplatively. “Actually, I assumed he was getting better and pulling away. I thought it was a good thing.”

“Definitely not getting better. Definitely not a good thing.”

“Does Dr. Elder have him on any new meds?” Brienne suggested. “He could just be adjusting to medication -- working out a dosage. It often takes a while to find the right combination, and some of the side effects can be brutal.”

“No meds, thus far -- except what Jaime takes for pain. I think Elder suggested getting him on an antidepressant, but Jaime resisted because he’s Jaime and hell bent on being as difficult as possible.”

“Ah,” Brienne said noncommittally. “It’s his choice, though.”

“He was doing so well only a month ago,” Tyrion sighed. “And now I feel like we are almost back to square one. It’s so damn discouraging.”

“Grief isn’t linear, Tyrion,” Brienne softly reminded, leaning back on the built-in couch of her trailer and bunching up a throw blanket under her head to serve as a pillow. “It’s a tricky thing, you know. You feel like you are doing well -- coming out of the clouds, only to be buried again by the slightest reminder -- a smell, a sound, a fucking television commercial for laundry soap.” She cleared her throat, rolling onto her side on the narrow cushions. “I think the important thing to remember here is that Jaime is processing at the rate he is supposed to be processing. It’s different for everyone.”

“I just feel so helpless.”

“Yes, but you are there. You are letting Jaime see that you are there, if and when he needs you.” She sighed, putting her hand over her closed eyes. “I know you want to do more. Believe me, I get it. But I think the important thing right now is just to see that Jaime is fed and clean and rested and to make sure he is going to therapy. Other than that, all you can do is give him the time and space to work through everything he needs to work through on his own.”

Tyrion laughed a short, rough laugh. “Christ, you’re such a voice of reason. Have you always been this way? Since you were small? Although, ...were you ever small?” He laughed again. “Small and tall -- gods, we make a great pair, the two of us.” Tyrion took a long sip of his drink. “Seriously, though, Jaime is incredibly lucky to have you. I am incredibly lucky to have you.”

Brienne blushed, even though she was in the privacy of her trailer. “Yes, well…”

“No, he is. Honestly, if you really want to know the truth, I wish he were seeing you and not the bloody ice queen. I think his mental health would be much better. I know mine would be.”

Brienne shuddered, grimacing. “Tyrion, your brother and I would kill each other before we would ever date each other.”

“Even that would be a definite improvement on his relationship with Cersei.” Tyrion sighed and ran a hand down his face. “She’s so toxic, Brienne. So, so toxic. She’s seen him twice -- twice since his accident. And both times she made him feel like shit. I don’t know what he sees in her.”

“They seemed extremely well matched back when I was around them,” Brienne said carefully. “Two peas in a pod.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tyrion sputtered in protest. “Jaime may have flaws, but Cersei -- gods, she’s just pure evil.”

Brienne laughed sardonically. “Well, evil or not, your brother seems to like her.”

“That’s because he can’t see her for what she is. He’s got these big, Cersei-shaped blinders on, at all times. It drives me fucking insane. The sad thing is, Jaime isn’t a bad guy. He’s got a good heart -- a good sense of right and wrong. But when he is around her, it’s like he completely loses himself -- becomes someone else.”

“Hmm…” Brienne really didn’t want to go down this road with Tyrion -- didn’t want to remind him that, in her past experience, both Jaime and Cersei had been pretty awful.

As if reading her mind, Tyrion continued. “He’s really not that bad, Brienne. I know the two of you have had your problems. But …”

“I know, I know,” Brienne cut him off, swiftly changing the subject. “But the important thing right now is for all of us, Cersei included, to support Jaime in his recovery.”

“Speaking of …” Tyrion hedged. “Will you be able to come out during your hiatus?” He had broached the idea with her last week, and she had fended him off with a hazy ‘maybe.’

Brienne sighed. “I … well, maybe...for a short time. If Jaime is up for another visit or even wants it.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he wants. It’s what I want,” Tyrion hastily replied. “And I think it would be good for Jaime to see you. You made such a difference the last time.”

“Yes, but Jaime may very well be pulling away now. Like I said, he hasn’t been calling so much lately.”

“All the more reason for you to come and see him face-to-face.”

“Tyrion, don’t pin all your hopes on me,” Brienne warned tersely. “Jaime has to do this, himself. He has to want this himself.”

“I know. I know, he does,” Tyrion said resignedly. “But you don’t see the change in him when he sees you or talks to you. It’s really something to behold. It’s like you remind him of who he is -- who he can be. He wants to be better for you.”

“Oh please,” Brienne laughed.

“No, no. He does. He wants to impress you.”

“The only thing Jaime wants to do is to show me up. Put me in my place.”

“Same difference,” Tyrion quipped. “Please, Brienne, think about coming out, if you can. If not for Jaime, as a personal favor for me.”

“Oh, well, if it’s for you...” Brienne laughed and then frowned. “Although, if Cersei is there, you’re on your own,Tyrion. You couldn’t pay me enough to deal with both Cersei and your brother at the same time.”

“Jesus, no. I’d never ask you to do that,” Tyrion assured. “I think I can guarantee that Cersei won’t be visiting any time soon. She’s far too wrapped up in her big film and her no-so-clandestine love affair with Osmund Kettleblack to give much more than a passing thought to poor Jaime.”

Brienne grimaced. “Oh Lord. Does Jaime know?”

“Oh. I think he knows. I think subconsciously he’s always known about the type of person Cersei is. However, he just refuses to see it. It’s that willing blindness thing.” Tyrion made an impatient noise in his throat. “She has this weird pull over him. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s almost like he imprinted on her all those years ago.”

“And yet, in the end, Jaime is a fully grown adult capable of making his own decisions.”

Tyrion laughed. “Oh, Brienne. It’s no wonder my brother likes being around you. You give him far too much credit.”

**~~~~~~**

**Twelve Years Earlier:**

Brienne stood in the shade of the Ferris Wheel, pressing her water bottle to the curve of her neck. It was so damn hot that her flip flops were getting tacky on the pavement. She considered pouring some of her water on her legs and arms to cool down. However, with her luck, she’d end up drenching her costume and hold up the shot. And then Jaime would be sure to get upset and say something snide. And Brienne couldn’t risk that because, if he did, she would deck him -- and then she would lose her job.

Ever since the whole kiss fiasco, she hadn’t spoken to him. Not one word. He had tried to joke it off, made some comment about how he appreciated her enthusiasm but maybe she should use fewer teeth and a little more tongue the next time she kissed him. However, she had ignored him completely.

The whole thing still made her blood boil. How dare he? How fucking dare he -- shove his godsdamn tongue in her mouth and make the whole thing into a big, humiliating joke. As if the entire set hadn’t already known just how much he didn’t want to kiss her -- as if he hadn’t made his distaste of her completely obvious since day one. And now, to add insult to injury, their characters were starting a relationship. A freaking relationship! Brienne was going to have to keep acting with him and kissing him and doing gods knows what else with him. It was enough to make her lose her lunch -- just puke right here on the incredibly expensive carnival set that Baelish was so proud of. And speaking of puking ...

Brienne looked over to the Tilt-a-Whirl, where Jaime and Cersei were in the midst of a nausea-inducing make-out session. They were wrapped around each other so tightly they almost looked like one person -- one tanned, golden-haired, green-eyed, way-too-good-looking-to-be-true person. Good gods, it was revolting. She sighed and averted her eyes.

Before Brienne could stew too long, the AD called “places,” and Jaime came sauntering over, rubbing his mouth with his hand to get rid of Cersei’s lip gloss.

Brienne rolled her eyes and turned away to find a shady spot to place her water bottle.

“Jesus, you’re a little red there, Tarth,” Jaime said with a smirk, coming up to take his place beside Brienne. “Too much sun or did you see something back there that scandalized you?” He gestured towards the Tilt-a-Whirl, where the hair and make-up lady was trying to fix Cersei’s hair.

Not looking at him, Brienne raised her middle finger.

Jaime laughed and held out his hand to her, palm up.

She took a deep breath and placed her hand in his.

**“Westerosi: Season 23, Episode 6: ‘Peer Pressure.’ Scene 16. Take 1. A- mark. Action!”**

_Dunc’s hand is sweating. Jesus, it’s sweating._

_She’s trying to hold it all together. But Roman freaking Webber is standing next to her. Walking beside her. Holding her freaking hand. And Dunc feels like she’s going to pass out -- which will be a disaster because Dunc is not a tiny, little, graceful girl. She is big and tall and awkward and will probably hit the pavement like a ton of bricks, taking Roman down with her. And then this whole, fragile thing they have started will come to a crashing and humiliating end._

_Honestly, she can’t completely wrap her mind around the fact that anything has actually started. It all seems like a dream. A weirdly vivid and confusing dream that she doesn’t quite know how to interpret._

_Because it doesn’t really make sense._

_Roman Webber -- handsome, popular, basketball star Roman Webber. Roman Webber -- her semi-best friend and full-time arch enemy for the past two years, kissed her._

_He had kissed her. And she had run._

_She had just been humiliated by Hyle Hunt, and Roman had been comforting her, there on the filthy, concrete floor of the Great Hall. And then he kissed her. And it was everything that she had dreamed about in all of her years of pathetic pining and horribly clichéd daydreams. And yet, even then, the only thing that she could think of in the moment was that it was a mistake. That he was only kissing her because he knew about her desperate crush; and he was trying to be a good friend and make her feel better and not feel so pathetic and devastated. So she had run, before she could make an even bigger fool of herself._

_And then he had shown up at her house, all contrite and apologetic. He didn’t want to lose her friendship, he told her. And she had pasted on a stupidly fake smile and socked him in the shoulder like a good buddy would do and told him that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was all good. But how could it ever be good again now that she knew what it felt like to kiss him?_

_And then he kissed her again._

_This time Dunc didn’t run. She didn’t kiss him back, but she didn’t run._

_He had pulled back, a weird look on his face, and asked her if it was OK -- him kissing her. And she blushed and shrugged and said that she guessed it was OK, if it was OK with him. And then he grinned -- outright grinned -- and told her that she was a dork. And then he told her to get her shit together because he had promised to take her to the county fair, and he always keeps his promises._

_And so now they are here, at the fair._

_The air smells like that weird combination of fried food and that sweet, sticky, pink popcorn that you can’t get anywhere else, and diesel exhaust from the rides. And Roman is holding her hand, and Dunc feels like she will burst -- just spontaneously combust from all the feelings that are ricocheting inside of her._

_Roman suddenly tugs on her hand, pulling her over so that her shoulder knocks against his body._

_“What?”_

_“I can hear you thinking from here.”_

_“I’m not thinking,” she protests, wishing she could just pull her hand away for a second and wipe it on her shorts. Why does it have to be 105 freaking degrees today?_

_“You’re always thinking,” he shoots back. “It’s one of the things I lo …,” he catches himself. “It’s what you do. You think. Way too much.”_

_“Well, you think way too little,” she grouses back, cursing him in her mind for looking so cool and handsome and put together, when she feels like she is slowly melting into a puddle of pale, freckled sweat._

_Roman laughs. “True,” he agrees. He moves closer to her -- his face right above her red, slightly peeling shoulder, as he brings his lips close to her ear. “But that’s because there are so many things way more fun than thinking.”_

_She flushes and moves away, trying to pull her hand from his, but he hangs on doggedly._

_“I want a soda,” she blurts out, saying the first thing that comes to her mind. “I …” She looks at him, at his incredibly handsome face, and her brain stops working. “I’m ... just really thirsty. It’s so hot.”_

_He smirks at her but releases her hand and fumbles in his back pocket for his wallet. “All right. What do you want?”_

_She waves him away. “I can get it. I have babysitting money.”_

_“I know you can get it,” he says, exasperated. “But this is my treat. I told you I was taking you to the fair. Let me take you to the godsdamn fair.”_

_She opens her mouth to argue, but he is so attractive, standing there with the sun in his hair, dressed in tan shorts and navy t-shirt. looking like he’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. So damn attractive. So she shuts it again and nods dumbly._

_They find a snack cart, and he pushes her in front of him in line, his hand at the small of her back; and she simultaneously wants to shake it off and to turn around and grab him by his shirtfront and kiss the hells out of him. She settles for taking a deep breath, hoping that she isn’t sweating through her t-shirt where his hand is._

_She is trying to keep her breath even and her heart at a normal rate (can he feel her heartbeat in her back?), when a shadow falls over her, offering a brief respite from the sun._

_“Well, isn’t this just the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”_

_The voice is soft and lilting with an undercurrent of razor sharpness._

_In response, Roman retracts his hand and turns abruptly._

_“Raina,” he says, and Dunc can instantly feel the change in him._

_Slowly, she turns to where Raina is standing -- tanned and golden in a short, yellow sundress and strappy sandals. Raina has her regular entourage of basketball players and cheerleaders surrounding her -- Doran Goode holding an enormous stuffed elephant that he must have won in the row of carnival games._

_“My, my, brother,” Raina says, flicking back her ponytail of sleek, golden hair. “What’s all this?” She gestures between the two of them, her expression bemused._

_Dunc can see the blush creeping up Roman’s neck, which is weird, because he never blushes. But then he shrugs, arranging his face back into a neutral mask of boredom. “Nothing.”_

_“It didn’t look like nothing,” Raina pushes, with a sly smile. She turns to Taena Merryweather. “Did it look like nothing to you?”_

_Taena giggles and pops her gum. “Oh, it definitely looked like something.”_

_Roman smiles a false smile. “Raina, you know that Dunc tutors me. I ran into her. Thought that the least I could do to thank her for helping me pass trig was to buy the girl a Coke. That’s it. Sorry to disappoint.”_

_Doran grins, shifting the elephant to his opposite hip. “I don’t know, man. It kinda looks like you two are on a date or something.” He nods his head challengingly at Roman._

_Roman’s smile never wavers, but a vein throbs at his temple. “Well, I guess we all know why you didn’t pass trig, Doran. Tell me, how is Remedial Business Math these days?”_

_Doran colors and moves forward, but Raina lays an elegant hand on his arm. She tsks at Roman and then looks at Dunc, her gaze full of pity. “Well, brother, after you’ve finished paying your debt, perhaps you’d like to join us over at the Reverse Bungee?” She turns back to Dunc. “I’d invite you too, Dunc, but I think there might be a weight limit. Wouldn’t want to put you in any danger.”_

_Dunc is tomato red at this point and not from the sun. She turns towards Roman, but he still has that strange smile on his face._

_He nods at Raina, his eyes flashing, and she smiles in response._

_“All right,” she says to her crowd of underlings. “We will see you there.” She waves her fingers at Dunc. “Nice to see you, Dunc. Enjoy that Coke.”_

_S_ _he turns to go but then pauses and looks back at Dunc, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Better make it diet, sweetie,” she quips._

_They walk away, and, stupidly, Dunc turns back to face the front of the line. She is trying to process everything. Roman’s kiss, his hand on her back, his outright denial that there is anything between them, his silent complicity at his sister’s pointed harassment._

_It’s their turn at the window of the snack cart, and Roman pulls out the money to give to the cashier._

_A cold, plastic cup is pushed into Dunc’s hand -- no lid, no straw; and she finds herself walking towards a shaded bench and sitting down._

_“I’m sorry about that,” Roman says finally, sitting next to her on the bench, deliberately not touching her._

_“Your tutor?”_

_Roman winces. “Listen, Dunc. You have to know …”_

_“What the hells Roman?” she says._

_The soda cup is between her legs, the insides of her thighs already cold and wet where they are pressing up against it. Her throat is dry -- so dry. But she’d rather drink sand than take a sip of that damn soda he just bought her._

_“Shit, Dunc. You don’t know my sister. If she knew the truth … If she knew that I liked you, she would destroy you.” He looks sad and terrified and oh, so guilty._

_“Oh, you’re worried about me?” she spits out. “That’s why you didn’t want to admit the truth?”_

_“Yes, I’m worried about you, godsdamn it. I did it for you.”_

_“Right,” she says. She can’t look at him. She can’t look at his beautiful face, as he sits there and lies-- lies to her face. She’s suddenly back in Connington’s bedroom -- back in the halls of Westerosi after Hyle Hunt’s public humiliation. Only this time it’s worse. It’s a million times worse._

_“Christ, Dunc. You don’t know how awful they are -- how vicious.”_

_She looks at him sharply. “Oh, **I** don’t know how awful they are? **I don’t know?”**_

_“Dunc, please…” he says desperately. “Just let me explain…”_

_But she has had enough._

_She grabs the soda and stands up to face him. “You know, Roman, you are totally right. They are awful. They are vicious.” She shakes her head. “But they are nothing compared to you.”_

_She looks right at him and turns the cup over, the cold liquid falling onto the pavement, splashing her flip flops and sending rivulets of brown, sticky fluid dripping down her calves. She then lofts the empty cup at him. “Thanks for the soda,” she says, her voice cold. And then she walks away._

**~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

“They don’t understand,” Jaime said angrily, throwing himself back on Dr. Elder’s couch and closing his eyes, as if he can make it all go away if he doesn’t look at it.

It feels like he’s been on the edge of a breakdown for weeks now. He’s tried to get a handle on it -- deal with it. It’s easier to keep it all inside when it’s just him. So he’s been keeping to himself, lately. Locking himself in his room. Not talking to Tyrion. Not calling Cersei. Not calling Brienne. It’s the only defense he knows. The only defense that ever works. But even that doesn’t seem to be working now.

“They are tired of me -- all of them. Tired of dealing with me. Tired of humoring me. Tired of me. So damn tired.”

“Why do you think they don’t understand?”

“I know that they don’t. They have no fucking clue.”

“No clue about what?”

“Jesus, about anything,” Jaime growled, his anger suddenly flaring. “They just expect me to be OK. To be better. To be happy -- on the mend -- the same as I was before.”

“And do you expect that of yourself?” Dr. Elder’s voice sounded blandly curious, which pissed Jaime off even more.

“Of course I expect that of myself!” Jaime cried. “Of course I do. It’s been months now. I should be better. And … I’m not.” He ran his hand down his face, pulling at the skin roughly. “I still feel broken. I still dream about the accident. I still have to force myself to leave the house -- to look in the mirror -- to see people.” He laughed a short, angry laugh. “You know, I keep thinking, ‘ _Well, next week, you’ll feel better. Next week you’ll feel like yourself. Next week you’ll feel more positive.’_ But the next week comes, and I still feel like shit.” He sat up on the couch, accidentally knocking his crutch to the floor in a loud clatter.

“Damn it!” Jaime cried in aggravation, kicking out at the crutch with his good leg and missing. Frustrated, he dropped his head to his hand, angry tears building behind his eyes. “Christ, what’s wrong with me?”

Dr. Elder remained quiet.

“I mean, I should be grateful, right? I lived.” The words were full of grief and loss. “I mean, I bet that other driver would be happy to trade places with me. “I should be grateful. I should be fucking over the moon.” He looked up at Dr. Elder, his eyes glassy with pain. “But I’m not. I’m not. What’s wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Why does something have to be wrong with you, Jaime? Why do you see your reactions as wrong? You went through a trauma. And trauma affects people differently. There is no right and wrong. There just is.”

“But I lived! I lived, and someone else died. Why can’t I just be happy? Why can’t I care?” The tears that he had been holding on to for weeks were flooding the corners of his eyes in an attempt to break free. He swiped at his face. “It’s like there’s this gigantic, gaping hole inside of me, and I just can’t fill it, no matter what I do. I mean, I’m happy I survived. Of course, I am. And I love my brother. I love Cersei. I know I love them, but I just ...Gods, I don’t know! I just don’t feel things the way I used to. How am I supposed to come back from this? How am I supposed to work again, if anyone will even fucking hire me in the first place? The major requirement for my goddamned job is to feel -- to show emotion. And I just can’t do it. I can’t seem to get it right.”

“Jaime, you are showing emotion right now. You are feeling right now. As for happiness, why do you feel like you should be happy?”

“I don’t know. I just feel so guilty all the damn time. I’m here. I’m alive. And I can’t even be grateful for that. I can barely get myself to care about anything. Why can’t I care? Why can’t I fucking care?” He broke down at that, cradling his head in his hand and his stump, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding everything in.

“Jaime,” Dr. Elder said calmly. And then again, “Jaime.”

Jaime looked up to find Dr. Elder holding out a box of tissues. He took one, wiping his eyes, too damned miserable to be embarrassed.

“All right. You are paying me to give you some perspective, so let me give you some perspective.”

Dr. Elder placed the Kleenex box down on the table by Jaime. “It seems to me that you are equating ‘feeling happy’ with ‘feeling’ -- with ‘showing emotion’ or ‘caring.’ You ask me why you can’t care? You tell me that you are not feeling the emotions that you are supposed to be feeling. But what I see in front of me is a person who feels deeply -- who cares deeply. A person who cares so much that he is brought to tears over the thought that he is letting the people he loves down by not feeling ‘what he is supposed to be feeling.’ And what I am here to tell you, Jaime, is that you are feeling exactly what you are supposed to be feeling.”

“But shouldn’t I be grateful? That I didn’t die?”

Dr. Elder shook his head. “Tell me, Jaime, would you go up to the parents of this boy who did die in the car crash and tell them that they should be grateful that it wasn’t them who died -- grateful that they have their health -- grateful that, at least, they were able to have children in the first place?”

“No. Of course … no.”

“No. You would honor their grief. You would expect them to be sad and suffering -- not happy and hopeful.”

Jaime nodded.

“So why won’t you give yourself the same grace?”

“I didn’t lose a child.”

“No, but you lost a hand. You lost an identity -- a concept of yourself and of your life that you had before the accident. You lost your health, your mobility, your ability to sleep, your appetite, your sex drive -- your pre-trauma existence. Now some of this loss will not be permanent, but you have suffered loss, Jaime. And you are grieving. And there are no time limits on grief.” Dr. Elder looked at him, his expression compassionate.

“Believe me, I’ve been in this business for more years than I like to admit, and in my time in this world, I, like most, have suffered loss. But I learned long ago that you can’t bully people into happiness, just as you can’t bully yourself into happiness.”

Dr. Elder leaned forward, looking at Jaime in the eye. “Listen, if you hear nothing else today, Jaime, I want you to hear this. When you tell yourself to ‘get over’ the accident and ‘to be happy that you are alive,’ what you are really telling yourself is that there are only two valid responses to the trauma that you’ve just experienced -- to be happy or to be dead.” He reached out and tapped Jaime on the knee. “Now does that sound like a fair choice to you?”

Jaime swallowed roughly, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears. “No. I … it doesn’t sound fair at all.” He shook his head, letting out something between a laugh and a sob. “Christ, the voice. The damn stupid voice.”

“Pardon me?”

“When Brienne was first trying to talk me into therapy, she mentioned the voice -- the voice inside your head that always lies -- distorts the truth. I think I’ve been listening to that voice.”

“Ah,” Dr. Elder said. “Yes, I think you have.” He turned back to his desk and rifled in his bottom drawer. After a few moments, he pulled out a yellow notebook. “I’m going to give you some homework, Jaime.”

Jaime grimaced. “Are you allowed to do that?”

“Oh yes, I’m allowed,” Dr. Elder replied with a smile. “That doesn’t mean you have to do it; but I think it will help you deal with that voice in your head.”

He held out the notebook to Jaime. “Once a day, if you can manage it, I want you to write down all of the things that that voice inside your head is telling you. Just write them down. Don’t worry if the messages are right or wrong -- don’t qualify any of the feelings or emotions or try to justify them or excuse them. Just write them down.”

“OK,” Jaime said cautiously.

“Now that can be it, if that is as far as you want to take it. However, if you are up to it, I suggest that you share what you’ve written with someone you trust -- with Tyrion perhaps, or Brienne.”

Jaime noticed that he didn’t mention Cersei and frowned.

“Get their perspective on it,” Dr. Elder continued. “You don’t have to believe their take or accept what they say as truth. However, what that voice in your head relies upon is the fact that it is the only narrative that you are listening to. You add other voices to the mix, and soon that voice doesn’t sound so loud -- so amplified.”

Jaime nodded his head. “All right.”

As if planned, the bell signaling the end of the session chimed, and Jaime rose, bending down to grab his crutch, shifting the notebook under his right arm.

“You are doing good work Jaime,” Dr. Elder said, rising from his own seat and reaching out to place a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “You may not be able to see it from where you are standing, but I think you are exactly where you are supposed to be.”

Jaime nodded, his eyes suddenly filling with tears yet again.

_Gods, would this fucking drama queen emotionalism ever bloody end?_

“Thank you,” he managed, before he turned and hobbled out the door.

**~~~~~~**

_Shit._

Jaime crossed out yet another line of text, ink smearing across the page like a streak of dark blood. This was ridiculous. Totally and completely ridiculous. How the hells did Dr. Elder expect him to do this, without a fucking right hand? Was the man a sadist? Why in Seven would he give writing homework to someone who had just lost their dominant hand? Apparently the good doctor was bound and determined to make Jaime feel even worse about himself.

_Well, mission accomplished!_

_Shit, this was just one more goddamn thing in a whole slew of things to feel crappy about._

Jaime glanced down once again at the page.

Christ, at best, his writing looked like a six year old’s -- a six year old who was also, very possibly, a serial killer.

Sighing, Jaime tore the damn page out of the notebook, crumpling it up into a ball and aiming for the trash bin.

He missed.

_Of course, he missed._

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before picking up the pen and beginning again.

Forty-five minutes and a million expletives later, he had a rough list messily scratched out on the notebook paper, and his left hand hurt like a motherfucker.

He looked down at his work, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to vomit.

The list of thoughts stared back at him, taunting him with their crudely shaped letters and irregular spacing.

Jesus. He was going fucking crazy.

_Did people actually do this sort of thing? Write down their thoughts? Write down the voices in their head? Well … probably crazy people._

Frustrated, Jaime stood up, grabbing the notebook and throwing it on the bedside table, before collapsing onto his bed and seizing his phone.

Jaime didn’t know what possessed him. Hells, even Dr. Elder seemed to know that Cersei might not be the best person to bare one’s innermost fears to. However, it had been days since Jaime had last spoken to his girlfriend, and he missed her. He missed hearing her sweet voice -- the way she said his name, called him ‘darling.’ Besides, Cersei had been first and foremost in his mind when he had written that damn list of anxious babble. It would be good to talk to her -- maybe get a little assurance. At the very least, let her know how much he appreciated her, and missed her, and loved ...

“Darling!” Cersei cried into the phone, her voice high and raspy.

“Cerse,” Jaime replied.

She was somewhere loud. Somewhere very, very loud. Some bass-heavy, dance music was thumping in the background, and numerous people seemed to be speaking over each other, their glasses and cutlery clinking.

“Darling?” Cersei called again. “Jaime, love. You’re going to have to speak up. You’re not very clear.”

“Where are you?” he asked, raising his voice.

“I’m at Nightsong!” Cersei shouted into the phone. “You know, that new, hot dance club I was telling you about. It’s so amazing, Jaime! So bloody amazing! Leave it to the Dornish to know how to party. King’s Landing has nothing like it!”

Jaime frowned. “Lucky you. Who are you with?”

“I miss you too!” Cersei shouted back. “So much! Darling, how are you?”

“I’m ...” Jaime shook his head. “I was hoping we could talk a bit, Cersei.”

“Sweetheart, you are really going to have to speak up.”

“Talk!” Jaime shouted. “I want to talk to you, Cersei!”

“It’s lovely to talk to you too. I miss you!” There was a ruckus on Cersei’s end of the conversation. “Listen, darling,” she said. “They’re pulling me out on the dance floor. Can I call you back later?”

“Cersei, we haven’t spoken in …”

“Great!” she cried. “I love you, Jaime. I’ll call you later tonight or tomorrow --depending on how much I have to drink!” She laughed.

“OK,” Jaime said resignedly.

“What?”

“OK!” he yelled.

“Lovely!” she cried. “Talk soon, darling. Kisses!”

“Yeah talk…”

But she had already hung up the phone.

Jaime sighed in disappointment. Well, that was a complete and total bust.

It’s not like he wasn’t happy that she was having fun. Why shouldn’t she be having fun? She was in Dorne -- on a movie set, godsdamn it. She should be having fun. She very well should be. Why should she be moping around in her hotel room waiting for him to call so he could share his bloody homework with her?

He glanced over to his notebook. _This was stupid. This whole thing was stupid._ He was thirty-four years old, and he was calling his girlfriend to talk to her about homework. And really, who in hells cared about bloody homework? Shit, he’d barely made it through school the first time. Why should now be any different? And, Dr. Elder had said that the second part of the assignment was optional. Jaime had written the sodding list; he didn’t technically need to read it to anyone.

Wrenching his glance away from the notebook, Jaime turned on the TV.

He flipped through a dozen channels before settling on the History Channel and turning up the volume.

It was half-way through a documentary on ancient civilizations that Jaime had been meaning to check-out.

_Good. He would just settle back and watch the plight of ancient peoples who, more than likely, were far too busy trying to stay alive to worry about fucking homework._

Jaime tried to concentrate and listen to the expert historians; however the damn yellow notebook was taunting him from the bedside table.

 _“I’m not finished,”_ it seemed to say. _“How are you ever going to get better if you can’t even finish your stupid homework? Oooh, is this yet another thing you will fail at, Jaime Lannister?”_

_Damn it!_

Muting the television, he grabbed his phone.

It rang five times before he heard a low, sleepy, “Hello?”

“Shit, did I wake you?”

 _Gods, what time even was it?_ Jaime fumbled with his phone.

“Well, it’s only twelve thirty in the morning on a work day, Jaime,” Brienne grumbled sleepily, her voice scratchy. “Why would you think that?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, instantly contrite. “I can call you tomorrow.”

“No, it’s good to hear from you,” Brienne cut in, yawning. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Jaime muttered sheepishly. He scratched his neck distractedly. “I haven’t really been in the best head-space.”

“Jaime, you never need to apologize for not calling.”

Jaime huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, it was probably a relief on your end. You were probably counting your lucky stars -- ‘Thank gods that clingy lunatic has stopped calling me at all hours of the day.’”

Brienne grumbled something that sounded like an expletive into the phone, before clearing her throat. “Jaime, what have we said about the whole projecting thing?”

Jaime laughed. “Sorry -- again.”

“So why were you calling?” Brienne asked. “Or were you just wanting a chat?”

“I…” Jaime trailed off. He glanced at the notebook sitting on his nightstand. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine,” Brienne replied. “Working way too many hours, trying to get the first half of the season shot and in the can before hiatus.” She yawned again. “How have you been?”

Jaime hummed noncommittally. “I’ve been …” He paused. “Well, not good.”

“Tyrion mentioned things had been rough lately.”

“Ah yes, I forgot that you had spies here,” Jaime groused, suddenly annoyed.

“Tyrion’s not a spy,” Brienne said tiredly. “He’s your brother.”

“Same difference,” Jaime grumbled. “But I guess he’s right. Things have been rough. I’ve been pretty low these last few weeks.”

“Mmm…” Brienne mused. “Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it.”

“Is it? I thought I’d be getting better by now.”

“You are getting better, Jaime. You’re healing physically. But you can’t expect to heal at the same rate emotionally. All this takes time.”

“That’s what Elder said.” Jaime sighed. “Would you believe the old man has me doing homework? Like some sort of remedial eighth grader.”

“Does he now?” Brienne said, a smile in her voice. “Are you going to do it?”

“What do you mean, am I going to do it?” Jaime said indignantly. “Of course I’m going to do it. I already did it.”

“You already did your homework?” Brienne sounded amazed. “Well, hell, Jaime. I guess wonders will never cease.”

“Jesus, woman. I’m so glad I called. You are so bloody supportive."

Brienne laughed. “No, really. Good for you, Jaime.”

“Thanks,” he replied begrudgingly. “You’ll actually appreciate the work he gave me. He wants me to write down everything that stupid voice inside my head says.”

“Ah, yes,” Brienne said. “Actually, that’s an incredibly helpful exercise.”

“You’ve done it?”

“Many times throughout my life,” Brienne replied. “I have bookcases filled with journals and notebooks.” She yawned. “It helps to get it out -- that voice. Sometimes you see it there on paper, and it looks so stupid. You wonder how you ever could have believed it in the first place. Although, other times it seems like the gospel truth. But then you go back a month later and read it, and you know there’s no truth to it at all.”

“Yeah,” Jaime said cautiously. “Well, I’m supposed to share it with someone -- read it to someone.”

“Wow.” Brienne gave a low whistle. “Dr. Elder’s not messing around, is he? That’s really asking a lot of you. Do you feel comfortable doing that?”

“I guess so,” Jaime said. “I don’t really know. Today is the first day I’ve written anything down.”

“Oh,” Brienne said. And then suddenly, “Oh! Did you want to read it to me? Is that why you called?”

“I mean, I don’t have to,” Jaime excused. “I can read it to Tyrion, if you’d rather not. It’s not a big deal at all. Like I said, it’s only the first day …”

“Jaime,” Brienne interrupted. “I’d be happy to listen -- but only if you don’t mind sharing it with me.”

“I don’t mind,” Jaime said quietly.

“All right,” Brienne said softly. “Well, good, then.”

Jaime took a deep breath and pulled the notebook towards him, wincing at the almost illegible scrawl. “Shit … uh ...Give me just a minute. It’s a bit hard to read because I’m not left-handed.” He shook his head and huffed out a sarcastic grunt. “Well, I guess I am now, huh?”

“Yeah,” Brienne said softly, her voice sympathetic. “You’re in good company, though. My dad’s left handed too.”

Jaime smiled at that. He could feel his heart rate starting to pick up and a hot flush creep up his neck, as he stared at the messy scrawl. “OK. I only wrote down a few. It was a bit much seeing them all there in black and white looking back at me.” He cleared his throat, suddenly incredibly embarrassed to be sharing such personal thoughts.

“You don’t have to, Jaime.”

“No, it’s OK. Um … Dr. Elder said it might help.” He took a deep breath. “OK -- number one: everyone’s tired of dealing with me. They think I should be better by now.” He tried not to feel anything. Tried to keep his voice light and disconnected. “Number two: no one wants to hear that I’m struggling and sad and angry because that’s all that they’ve been hearing since the accident. They just want me back the way I was.” He cleared his throat anxiously, barreling on before Brienne could comment. “Number three: Tyrion’s had enough of me and wants to move back to his apartment where he can actually have a life. He just can’t find the words to tell me because he feels sorry for me. Number four…” he broke off embarrassed. _Maybe he should skip over this one._

“Number four?” Brienne questioned.

“Yeah .. uh… number four: Cersei doesn’t … doesn’t want to be with me any more. She wants a better boyfriend -- one who is whole and not broken...” He trailed off, flushing. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“That’s quite a lot,” Brienne said.

“Yeah.”

Brienne exhaled carefully. “Well, it’s no wonder you are struggling, Jaime, if you are carrying all of that around with you. I can’t believe you haven’t collapsed from the heaviness of it all.”

Jaime laughed roughly. “Who says I haven’t?”

“Am I supposed to respond or just listen?” Brienne asked tentatively.

“You can respond. Dr. Elder said it would be good to hear other perspectives.”

“OK,” Brienne replied. “Well, I’ll just take them number by number, shall I?” She cleared her throat. “In terms of the first one -- you can’t put a timeline on grief. I know that for damn sure.”

Jaime laughed. “That’s exactly what Dr. Elder said.”

“Well, he’s right,” Brienne agreed. “Seriously, Jaime, if you’re worried that we are all here checking our imaginary watches and wondering why you are not recovering more quickly, you’re completely wrong.”

“Yeah, but you guys do want me to -- recover, I mean.”

Brienne hummed pensively. “Honestly, Jaime, I don’t even think recovery is the right word when you’re dealing with grief. It’s more like getting comfortable living with it -- getting to a place where it doesn’t demand such attention from you at all times of day. And even then, it surprises you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grief. It just …” She paused, sighing. “Listen, Jaime, it’s been twenty plus years since I lost my family, and just two weeks ago, I called my father at ten at night, sobbing because I missed my mom. It had been a shit day at work, and I felt like hell, and I just really wanted my mom, and I was sad and lonely and felt pretty hopeless. And you know what, my father didn’t tell me to buck-up. He didn’t tell me that it had been twenty years, and I should be over it. He understood because he’s been there too. He’s called me too -- many times -- missing them, grieving them.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said.

_Shit, he had no idea that Brienne still struggled. Hells, had he ever actually asked her how she was coping? Or did he just yammer on about all his problems like a narcissistic prat? The latter most likely, going by past experience._

“It’s OK,” Brienne said, interrupting his self-deprecating thoughts. “I’m glad I still miss her -- that I still feel that connection, even if it’s difficult sometimes.”

She took a deep breath, letting it out audibly, before returning to the original conversation. “OK, as to your second point, I can only speak for myself, but I fully expect you to be sad and angry and depressed. I mean, I wish it could be easier for you -- that you weren’t in so much pain all the time -- that you didn’t feel such sorrow. I think we all do. And maybe that wishing comes off as pressure to be better or impatience with where you are at or something, but I assure you it’s not.”

“That’s … no. I wasn’t criticizing...”

“Jaime,” Brienne interrupted, cutting him off. “Listen, you have to know that I couldn’t give a rip if you never go back to your old self, back to the old Jaime. Actually, if I’m being totally honest here, this post-accident Jaime -- this version of Jaime who cares deeply and actually does his homework and is not afraid to do the hard shit that life requires -- is a much better person than the asshole I knew back on the set of _Westerosi_.” She chuckled softly. “In fact, I’d be a little pissed off if he suddenly went back to being the asshole he was before.”

Jaime laughed, suddenly quite overwhelmed.

“Now, I think you need to speak to Tyrion and Cersei about the last two things. However, I will say that I’ve gotten to know Tyrion these past few months, and he strikes me as a man who makes his own decisions, regardless of how others feel. I would think that, if he really wanted to move out, he would. If he was really fed-up with you, he’d just tell you to fuck-off and be done with you.”

Jaime laughed. “You’re probably right.” He smiled and picked up the pen in his left hand, awkwardly trying to doodle curls and slashes on the notebook page. “But don’t stop there, Tarth. Let’s hear your insights on Cersei?”

Brienne groaned. “Jeez, Jaime. I don’t know Cersei well, nor do I really want to. But can I just reiterate that you are whole? You are whole and not broken. And, if anyone can’t see that, then they are the ones who are really broken.”

Jaime swallowed. The pen jumped to the list, and Jaime found himself unconsciously crossing out the words it had taken so long for him to write.

“Jaime?”

“Gods, Tarth,” he finally rasped out, trying to clear the thickness from his throat. “I think you’ve missed your calling. You’d make a damn good therapist.”

“Yeah well, a lifetime of therapy will do that for you.” She chuckled softly. “You learn all the tricks of the trade.”

“Thank you. I just … thank you.”

“Of course,” Brienne said. “Anytime you want me to tell you that you’re wrong in your thinking, I’m always happy to oblige.”

Jaime laughed. He tossed the pen on the table and shoved the notebook away from him. “OK - homework finished,” he said, exhaling deeply. “Let’s change the subject.”

“All right,” Brienne agreed. “What do you want to talk about?”

Jaime sat back against the headboard. “Well, you mentioned finishing up the first half of the season. Do you have plans for the winter hiatus?”

“Robb wants me to stay in Winterfell, visit the Stark Family Compound.”

Jaime frowned. “Ah yes. There’s nothing like visiting Winterfell in December when the weather is so cold, your balls will actually freeze and fall off.”

“Well, you see, despite Cersei’s many charming claims to the contrary when we were working together, I don’t actually have balls, so I think I’ll be safe,” Brienne joked. “But actually.” Brienne took a sip of something. “Tyrion’s invited me to come and visit the last couple days of the break.”

“He has, has he?” Jaime said archly.

_Sneaky little bastard._

“I told him, I’d think about it; and, of course, get your feelings on it.”

“My feelings on it?”

“Well, it hasn’t been all that long since my last visit. You may be well sick of me.”

Jaime laughed. “If anything, I’d think it would be the other way round.”

“Well, we’re not really known for our ability to get along,” Brienne said thoughtfully. “We may have better luck keeping things civil, if we don’t see each other much.”

“Well, I think I can handle it,” Jaime assured. “The wild card is, of course, you.”

“Why am I the wild card?” Brienne asked.

“If either of us is going to storm out in huff, it’s going to be you, Tarth. Guaranteed.”

“I resent that, Lannister,” Brienne huffed. “You’re the one who’s known for his juvenile tantrums.”

“And you’re the one who holds the grudges.”

“I don’t hold grudges.”

“Brienne, the very definition of bullheaded stubbornness is just a picture of you.”

“Stop trying to act like you know me, Lannister,” Brienne groused. “It’s insufferable.”

Jaime laughed. “Case and point on the stubbornness. You still insist that I don’t know you.”

“You don’t,” she said stubbornly.

“Hah! I bet I know you better than any person on your space knights show.”

“You’re so full of shit, Jaime Lannister,” she replied, scoffing at his presumption.

“Well, I’d wager good money that I’ve kissed you more than any other man out there.”

“That was acting, Jaime. That wasn’t real.”

“Have I, though?” Jaime leaned a little forward on the bed.

“It’s none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, his mouth curling into a satisfied grin.

“Take it however you want to take it,” Brienne grumbled sullenly. “It’s still none of your business.”

“Like I said, stubborn.”

Brienne grunted. “Honestly, Jaime, was there anything else that you wanted to discuss, because I have an extremely early call tomorrow?” Her voice had taken on that prim, annoyed tone that she used so much when talking to him. “I actually would like to get a few hours of sleep before I have to trek through the frozen forests of Winterfell on a horse.”

“All right,” Jaime relented. Still smiling, he leaned back again against the headboard. “I’ll let you go. Thanks for …” he trailed off. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She paused. “You’re doing good work, Jaime.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, you’ll get there. It’s just going to take time.”

“Yeah,” Jaime said softly.

“OK, then. Good night, Jaime.”

“Sleep well, Brienne. I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, another ridiculously long chapter! Honestly, I don't plan for them to be this long. There's just so much shit the characters need to work through. But I guess that's what I get for using four separate storylines to tell the same, damn story, lol. 🤣
> 
> Speaking of that, thank you so much for coming along on this strange and complicated journey with me. I say it every time, but I so appreciate all of your support. 💖


	12. You Ruin Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cards, meet table. Shit, meet fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that this Brienne is older; has logged fifteen years in the industry; and has had a lifetime of therapy. 
> 
> We are going completely off-road here, gang. This story takes place in a modern world. And a modern world requires modern ideas and modern battles about age-old issues. As the incredible Hannah Gadsby says, “Hindsight is a gift.” 
> 
> Also, just keep in mind that this version of Jaime, although constantly striving to be better, still has a lot for which to account. And this Jaime and Brienne have a very different history than their canon predecessors do. Hold on to your hats.

**“You Ruin Me”**

**The Veronicas**

**“Job well done, standing ovation.**   
**Yeah, you got what you wanted,**   
**I guess you won.**   
**And I don’t want to hear, ‘they don’t know you like I do.’**   
**Even I could have told you,**   
**But now we’re done.”**

**~~~~~~**

**Twelve Years Earlier:**

**_Westerosi_ , Season 23, Episode 9, Scene: 31 “Battle Royal”**

_Roman fishes the silver flask out of his suit pocket. Pretending to be absorbed in the music, he turns to face the wall, taking a large swig of the stinging liquid -- and then another for good measure._

_He should probably slow down. The night is still young. But shit, he’d welcome a good, old fashioned, sloppy, blackout moment right about now, if it would save him from the horror of Westerosi High’s “Winter is Coming” themed prom._

_Why is he even here?_

_He doesn’t want to be here. But Raina has convinced him. Apparently he is a shoo-in for Prom King; and he can’t disappoint his “subjects” by not showing up. Plus Taena has been yammering on about prom and her dress and how excited she is that Roman is her date for weeks now. He can’t deprive her of her big night, now can he?_

_Well, he can. Roman has no issues with that. He doesn’t really like Taena at all. She talks way too much, for one. And she never has her own opinion -- just parrots back Raina’s opinion on everything. And Roman is sick and tired of listening to Raina’s opinion. He is sick and tired of listening to his sister -- of placating his sister -- of doing every damn thing that his sister wants him to do. Fucking tired of it._

_And yet … here he is at the godsdamn Winter Prom with Taena Merryweather. Thirty minutes away from being crowned fucking Prom King. An hour away from blowing off the stupid dance and going back to the hotel suite they have rented for the after-prom rager which is sure to be the party of the year. And three hours away from getting so shit-faced that he won’t remember the night at all. And Roman doesn’t want any of it._

_No, what he really wants is sitting over in the corner with Edric Storm and Blushing Bethany and Casper Wylde -- trying to avoid making eye contact with him._

_He hasn’t spoken to Dunc since the day at the fair. He had tried at first. Left a million voicemails and texts. But she has ignored him. Or maybe she has blocked his number. If she has, good for her. She should. All he will end up doing is causing her a whole lot of grief and heartache. But gods, he misses her. He misses her like nothing else. He keeps replaying those two stupid kisses in his head -- and they weren’t even good kisses, for fuck’s sake. Dunc had been way too shocked to respond much. Hadn’t really kissed him back at all. But, gods, they were still the best kisses of his life; and he can’t stop himself from imagining what it would have been like if she had kissed him back._

_No, no. No use going there. She won’t even look at him anymore. Passes by him as if he isn’t even there -- as if they haven’t spent the last two years closer than he has been with anyone else in his whole fucking life._

_It is better this way, though. Better just to rip the band-aid off and be done with it._

_Raina is right, for once. She is right. It will never work -- he and Dunc. They are from two totally different worlds. Dunc will only end up getting hurt. And he … well, as much as Roman thinks of himself as a rebel -- he isn’t. It sickens the hell out of him, but he is just as susceptible to peer pressure as anyone else in this damn school. Well, anyone but Dunc, maybe. She doesn’t seem susceptible to it at all, which is why he lo…_

_Shit._

_He turns to the wall and takes another long swig._

_“Ro, you’re being anti-social again,” Raina chastises, coming up next to him and holding out her hand demandingly._

_He shrugs and gives her the flask._

_Throwing a glance behind her to check for chaperones, Raina takes a sip, wiping off the smear of her red lipstick, before pushing the flask back into Roman’s hands. She turns to him._

_“Go ask Taena to dance,” she commands. “The girl is fucking killing me with all of her anxious hovering.”_

_“I don’t want to spend time with her,” Roman protests grimly. He tries to keep his gaze away from Dunc and her friends, but his eyes are pulled there like they are caught in some sort of tractor beam._

_“She’s your date, little brother.” Raina’s voice is light, but there is an undercurrent of frustration._

_“Only because you made me take her.”_

_“Who else were you going to take?” Raina snarks._

_Her eyes scan the gym, following the direction of his gaze until they come to rest on a tall, blond head. She huffs. “Oh, I see Dunc Duncan is here. Or is that her brother?” She squints exaggeratedly. “No, no -- it’s Dunc. You can tell because she has smaller tits than he does.”_

_“Shut it, Raina,” Roman growls. He’s not in the mood for this._

_“So sensitive, Roman,” Raina soothes archly. “It’s almost like you have a thing for the girl.”_

_Taena takes that moment to walk over to the twins, handfuls of her cumbersome dress bunched up so that she can walk without tripping._

_“Go,” Raina orders._

_Roman glares at his sister but pockets the flask and grabs Taena’s hand, leading her to the dance floor, just as a slow ballad starts playing._

_He tries not to muss her dress, but it is big and poofy, and he keeps stepping on it._

_“You look really handsome tonight, Roman,” Taena smiles._

_Roman nods, spinning her around to where he has a better view of Dunc and her friends._

_Casper Wylde has asked Dunc to dance, taking her hand and leading her out onto an open section of the gym floor._

_They look ridiculous. Casper is short and round, where Dunc is long and tall. However, they are smiling and laughing, and they look like they are having far more fun than Roman is having._

_“I can’t wait until prom court is announced,” Taena gushes. “You’re going to get king for sure.”_

_Roman grunts, barely paying attention._

_Dunc has now leaned forward to jokingly put her elbow on Casper’s head, tilting her head into her hand, as if Casper is a moving side table. They laugh, and Roman can hear it from across the dance floor -- that raucous, unbridled, poker-player laugh that Dunc hates and Roman loves. His stomach twists, and he feels like he is going to be sick. Too much vodka, probably._

_The song ends, and Dunc and Casper return to their friends._

_She doesn’t look his way once. Not once. It’s like he is invisible._

_Taena pulls on Roman’s hand, and they go back to the table they have commandeered with the rest of the in-crowd. Roman sits in an empty chair, and Taena sits by him, reaching out a hand to fix his shirt collar._

_Doran Goode makes a joke about the shitty music, and they all laugh; and Roman wants to vomit. He tries to ignore them -- takes another sip from his flask, tries to ignore the way that Taena’s hand is playing with the hair that curls around his collar._

_Soon Melara Hetherspoon has the mic, and she is announcing the prom court._

_The whole table, except for Roman, joins hands._

_Surprise, surprise -- Roman is king, and Raina is queen, just like his sister has planned. The entire table stands and claps in an ovation of victory, as if they haven’t known the outcome all along._

_Raina smiles at him and grabs his arm, and they make their way to the stage to be awarded their crowns._

_Roman positions the stupid crown on his head, looking over to the corner where Dunc and her friends are to see her reaction to all of this-- only she isn’t there any more._

_Melara is saying something about how they will forego the Royal Dance this year because of the fact that he and Raina are siblings. Instead, the king and queen get to dance with the person of their choice._

_But the person of his choice isn’t here. She’s disappeared like some sullen and proud Cinderella, trying to escape before everything goes to shit and turns into rats and pumpkins again._

_Instead, Raina pushes him into Taena’s waiting arms, and Roman finds himself again swaying in time to an overplayed, sappy ballad with a girl he can’t stand._

_Taena adjusts his crown, securing it on his head, and then lets her fingers drag down to cup his face. She looks at him with her big, sparkling eyes and bites her lip -- and that’s it. That’s all Roman can take._

_Mumbling a vague apology, he heads to the doors of the gym, bursting through them on his way to the bathroom or outside or somewhere -- anywhere but this stupid, fucking prom._

_He gets half-way down the Great Hall when he sees her._

_She is leaning against a bank of lockers, one shoe off, surveying a red mark on her foot._

_“Dunc,” he calls, before he can stop himself._

_She looks up, fear flitting across her face for a moment. She reaches for her shoe, jamming it back on her foot. “Hey, Roman,” she says nonchalantly, nodding at him. She makes to move past him, but he grabs her elbow._

_“Dunc ... I…”_

_“Here he is,” Raina’s voice calls from behind him, as she and Taena come to stand by him, flanking him on both sides. “I told you he wouldn’t have gone far,” Raina continues. The crown on her head sparkles under the fluorescent lights. It looks like it was made for her, an extension of her -- not like his own, which has slipped down on one side._

_Raina narrows her eyes at him and shakes her head. “What is it, brother? Too much to drink?”_

_Roman looks at her blankly. His hand is hot on Dunc’s elbow._

_Dunc again makes a move to leave, shaking her arm from his grasp and retreating back two steps._

_The movement brings Raina’s attention to Dunc._

_“Dunc! Well, don’t you just look a vision,” Raina says. Her voice is sickly sweet, as she surveys Dunc’s form. “Seriously, Taena. Have you ever seen a dress like that?”_

_Taena grimaces and giggles; and Roman wants to strangle her._

_“Honestly, I didn’t know they made prom gowns in that size,” Raina continues. “Wherever did you find it?”_

_Dunc blushes, the red flush spreading up to the roots of her hair. “My mother made it,” she grits out, her gaze flitting to the doors of the gym. She looks as if she is about to cut and run, and Roman doesn’t blame her. He never should have approached her._

_“Ah,” Raina sighs. “Of course, she did. Of course, she did.” She smiles archly. “Well, she is very talented. She must have padded out the bodice. It almost looks like you have a figure.” She smiles, her lips curling into two sharp points. “Almost.”_

_Dunc is beet red now, blinking at Raina._

_Raina turns to Taena. “Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Duncan to make your next dress, Taena? Then maybe you too could be as lovely as Dunc, here.”_

_Taena laughs. “Gods. Don’t give me nightmares.”_

_Dunc is watching him, but Roman is rooted to the spot. His hands are grasped into tight fists, but he knows if he says something, Raina will make it a million times worse for Dunc, so he keeps quiet._

_Luckily, at that moment, Casper comes walking back into the hall from the boys' bathroom. He stops, staring warily at the gathered assembly._

_“Casper,” Dunc says in relief, turning her back on Roman. “I thought I’d lost you there, for a minute.” She grabs his arm and deftly steers him past the gathered crowd. “Come on. Let’s go find Bethany and Edric -- see if Mrs. Mormont has started serving the cake yet. If we get there first, we may get a piece with writing on it.”_

_And then she leaves, without even looking back at Roman._

_Roman turns to stare after them._

_He can feel Raina moving closer to take his arm. “You see, brother,” she murmurs smugly, her voice a low hum. “It’s just the way of the world. Like recognizes like. Dunc Duncan belongs with the Casper Wyldes of the world. And you, Roman Webber, belong with the prom court,” she gestures to Taena, “and with all of your many, many loyal and adoring subjects.”_

_Taena giggles._

_But Roman has finally had enough._

_He shakes off Raina’s hand and starts walking towards the school exit._

_“Roman!” Raina calls severely._

_There’s a warning in her voice, but Roman doesn’t listen._

_For once he doesn’t listen._

_He just wrenches the cheap, plastic, prom king crown off of his head and tosses it into the overflowing garbage can with the rest of the trash, before walking out of the school and into the night._

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Brienne was tired.

Jaime could tell.

She put on a good show, but there was something about her eyes -- the way she carried herself -- a certain timbre to her voice that made her seem dimmed, subdued, almost fragile.

When he asked her about it, she claimed that she was just exhausted. Too many late night shoots and early morning calls. Too much complicated stunt work, pushing her body to its absolute limit. Too much work, full stop. And she was not as young as she used to be, she was quick to point out, ignoring Jaime’s offended eye roll.

The visit had been a good one so far -- far better than the humiliating fiasco that Cersei’s visit had proven to be. However, Jaime couldn’t help but notice the slight difference in Brienne’s manner -- the slightly more pronounced guardedness that she seemed to have that she hadn’t had with him during their recent phone conversations. It was subtle, but it was there.

Not that he was complaining or anything. Hells, she was using her vacation time to come and see him -- to be there for him. And tired or not, Brienne still had that uncanny ability to make him feel better -- to get him to do things he didn’t normally do.

Case and point, tonight they had gone out to dinner in public, which Jaime never did. It had been months since the accident, but Jaime still lived in constant fear of the paparazzi ambushing him and taking a less than flattering shot. He could just imagine his stump being plastered over the cover of every gossip mag in Westeros, under some salacious headline: _“Show of Hands: Who Remembers Jaime Lannister?”._

However, Brienne had convinced him that it was good for him to get out of the damn house from time to time -- to remember what the great, big world was actually like. She had insisted that the longer he waited, the harder it would be to face it. And then she had mentioned that it was impossible to take a less than flattering shot of him -- and, really, she should be the one protesting because she didn’t relish the idea of being captured in a photo with him. However, she would make the supreme sacrifice and risk the embarrassment, if it meant him leaving the fucking house.

He had smiled at that one and accepted the compliment. And they had ended up going to a little hole in the wall that Tyrion recommended that was known for its kebabs.

“Good, one-handed food,” Brienne had remarked.

And Jaime hadn’t even gotten upset at her comment. Maybe therapy was making him into a better person.

Somehow, he had convinced her to come back to the flat for a beer after dinner. She had looked like she was about to drop from exhaustion; but she must have seen the desperation in his face, for it hadn’t even taken much for him to wear her down.

One beer had turned into two and then into three, and pretty soon they were trading war stories back and forth about all of the crazy acting projects that they had been involved in the ten years they hadn’t spoken.

The beer and the sleepy heat from the furnace that Jaime had cranked up the minute they had returned to the flat seemed to be bleeding a little bit of the tension from Brienne. And Jaime watched, fascinated, as, little by little, Brienne let down her guard.

“That movie was ridiculous,” Brienne insisted, kicking off her shoes and putting her feet up on the coffee table. She was referring to one of the big, action movies Jaime had starred in which had been supremely popular and had made him a ton of money, but which wasn’t known for its brilliant dialogue or realistic plot. “The stunts were the only redeeming part of the whole film.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to tell my stunt double that the next time I see him,” Jaime snarked. “Do you have anything nice to say about my performance, perhaps?

Brienne shrugged. “Well, you looked good,” she quipped, tipping her bottle towards him, before taking a drink.

Jaime shook his head. “I’m starting to get the feeling that you only see me as a pretty face,” he groused jokingly. “You know, Brienne, I’m not just a slab of meat for people to ogle.”

“Who in hells ogles meat, let alone a slab of it?” Brienne retorted, chuckling. “Besides, it’s not like you’ve been picking super high-level projects, Jaime. It’s all guns and girls and guts.”

“I’ll have you know that guns and girls and guts have paid for all of this,” he waved his hand around his flat. “And besides, I refuse to be lectured by someone who is on a show about space knights.”

“A well-written show about space knights,” Brienne defended, looking affronted. “A show that’s breaking gender stereotypes and preaching inclusivity and challenging old, outdated ideas of colonialism.”

Jaime laughed, holding up his hand. “Whatever you say, Ser Arianne. Although as a space knight, I think you might just be a little biased here.”

“Piss off,” Brienne grumbled, but it was more fond than angry; and Jaime smiled in response, holding her gaze for slightly longer than what was warranted.

After a few silent moments, she turned away, and the conversation stalled.

Jaime took another swing of his beer, still watching Brienne out of the corner of his eye.

_The truth of the matter was, she was really good on that damn show. He probably should tell her that. But then, she would just get all smug and Brienne-like and say something like, “I know, Jaime” or “Yes, of course. I only pick quality projects, Jaime” or “Yes, you should try acting in a well-written show some time, Jaime. You could be good too.” And she would be right; but Jaime didn’t really want to hear that right ..._

“Jesus, it’s hot in here,” Brienne grumbled suddenly, jarring Jaime from his thoughts. “How high do you have the thermostat? It feels like a bloody sauna.”

“You’re just used to the icy tundra of Winterfell,” Jaime shot back. “The temperature in here is fine.”

“If you’re an orchid, maybe,” Brienne snarked. “Seriously, I feel like I’m sweating through my clothes.” She shook her head, placing her beer on the side table and crossing her arms to pull off the oversized Storm’s End hoody she was wearing.

Jaime watched, as her head disappeared under the thick, blue material.

His eyes focused, and he blinked in confusion.

“Jesus, what the hell!”

Jaime’s gaze fell to where the end of Brienne’s shirt had gotten caught-up in the sweatshirt, exposing the flat planes of her stomach. But that wasn’t what drew his attention. No, what drew his attention were the black and blue welts and bruises that were splattered across the entire left side of her abdomen like some abstract expressionist painting.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Jaime asked, reaching over to trace his left index finger down one long bruise, before he could stop himself.

Brienne grunted, startling back. She wrenched off the sweatshirt and quickly pulled down her shirt before he could touch again.

“My horse spooked during a tricky battle scene. Threw me off,” she explained, her cheeks coloring vividly. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Fuck, woman,” Jaime said, suddenly very, very angry. “When are you going to stop doing your own damn stunts? There are people trained in stunt work, you know. Trained professionals who know how to take a godsdamn fall.” He shook his head, livid. “You are going to end up killing yourself one of these days.”

Brienne raised her chin defensively, before grabbing her beer and taking a gulp. She moved farther away from him on the couch. “It’s fine,” she waved away his concern. “It doesn’t really hurt much.”

“Yeah, it looks like it doesn’t really hurt much,” Jaime snarked.

“Jaime. Stop trying to mother me. It’s fine. Leave it.”

He glowered at her, wanting to press the issue; but she suddenly sighed so forlornly, that he bit off his protest before it was formed.

“Honestly, Jaime,” she said, blinking at him tiredly. “I know that you don’t think much of it. And it may be just a show about space knights, but I like my job. I’m really happy there. What’s more, I feel like I'm doing good work.”

She gestured gingerly to her side. “Look, I know that it’s dangerous, but I like that I get to do stunts -- that production trusts me enough to do them. That I can use my height and my strength in such a powerful and creative way.” Her eyes warmed a bit in their earnestness; and Jaime was once more reminded how powerful those eyes could be.

“The truth is,” she continued, “it may be just fantasy and make-believe, but I love the story that we are trying to tell. I love the fact that the scripts contain so much action and physicality but that there is also a lot of meaty character work -- a lot of emotion. It’s the best of both worlds.” She smiled a faint smile. “I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been happier on a show.”

“Well, you’re good at it,” Jaime said begrudgingly, surprisingly touched by her little speech, or maybe just by her damn eyes. “The meaty character work, I mean. Not the stunts -- although you’re good at those too.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said tiredly.

“But then you always were good at character work.” Jaime sipped his beer distractedly.

They fell into silence again, and Brienne sat back, contemplating the label on her bottle.

“Speaking of which…” He hesitated. “I think I may have mentioned this already, but I’ve been going back and watching some of the old _Westerosi_ episodes.”

Brienne choked on her beer, sitting up and coughing.

“No, no, they are good,” Jaime protested. “I’ve actually been very pleasantly surprised.” He nodded at her, gesturing with his beer bottle. “I mean the scenes we did together … you and I. Talk about character work. We went deep in some of those scenes. We were damn good. It was...” He struggled to find the right word. “I don’t know, real? … raw?”

Brienne shook her head, but Jaime held up his hand to cut off her argument. “I know, I know -- we didn’t get along, and it wasn’t anyone’s idea of fun. But honestly, Brienne, onscreen, we had a level of closeness, a level of trust, that I’ve never been able to replicate with another actress. I mean, gods, the other day Tyrion and I watched that scene when Roman’s father dies, and Dunc is just holding him and letting him rage. I’m not sure if I’ve done better work … ever.”

Brienne made a noncommittal noise, the trepidation returning to her eyes. She took another sip from her beer, suddenly fascinated with the arm of the couch.

Jaime rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at her questioningly. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” she asked cautiously, still examining the upholstery.

“ _Westerosi?_ Being Dunc?”

Brienne grimaced. “Um…Well, I mean, of course I’m grateful. It’s how I got my start,” she said carefully, not really looking at him. “And, like you said, we did some really good work playing those characters. We had some good storylines that I think helped people. I’m proud of that. And I do miss the crew and many of the cast members and all the lovely support people.” Her face cleared for a moment. “And I think I’ll always have a soft spot for Dunc. I mean, I grew up with her, and there were parts of her that I really connected to. But, if I’m being completely honest, … no.” She shook her head, her expression resolute. “I don’t miss it. Not at all.”

“Oh come on,” Jaime said, suddenly inexplicably defensive. He pulled himself up off of the couch, hobbling over to the entertainment center, determined to make her see.

“Wait. What are you doing?” Brienne asked, warily. She watched him fumble open an ancient DVD case. “Jaime, no. I don’t want to watch _Westerosi_. I really, really don’t want to watch _Westerosi_. Honestly, I’ve tried to block all of that from my ...”

“Just one episode,” Jaime pleaded, turning back to face her. “Come on. He stuck out his lip in a pout. “Just to prove my point.”

“Jaime, I concede whatever point you are trying to make. We don’t have to watch. We really don’t.”

“Come on, Brienne. It will help me in my recovery. Make me feel good about myself again. Remind me of the actor that I used to be.” He turned his full puppy-dog eyes on her and held up his stump. “How can you say no to a poor, one-handed man?”

Brienne groaned and held up her hands in defeat, collapsing back against the couch.

“Fine,” she muttered. “One episode.”

They spent the next few hours, as Jaime jumped back and forth through various episodes of _Westerosi_ , stopping to point out the scenes that he felt showed their talent -- their chemistry.

Brienne was mostly quiet from her place on the couch, unless the episode contained a Dunc and Roman love scene. For those she covered her eyes and groaned loudly.

“Gods, I can’t believe you are making me watch this,” she grumbled, after a particular hot and heavy make out scene between their characters.

“Come on! That was good! I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but we were damn good together.” He looked at her earnestly. “How can you not see that that was some A+ acting right there?”

“The make out?” she questioned, yawning loudly.

“No,” Jaime replied. “And, by the way, thanks for that look of sheer and utter boredom.”

Brienne snorted out a laugh, relaxing back on to the couch and closing her eyes.

“No -- the partnership. Dunc and Roman. I know neither of us really wanted it, and it was difficult at times, but it worked. It totally worked.” Jaime took a swig of his beer, toasting the screen with his bottle. “Of course, it was a brilliantly written love story to begin with. Totally revolutionary.”

That woke her up.

Brienne let out a disgruntled huff, suddenly sitting up and leaning forward. “Right. So fucking revolutionary,” she muttered sarcastically. “The gorgeous guy sees past outward appearances and loves the girl for her inner beauty. Stop the bloody presses.”

“It was revolutionary,” Jaime defended, turning to her in surprise.

“Says the gorgeous guy.”

“What? You’d rather have Roman with someone like Taena? That would be revolutionary?”

“Jesus, Jaime,” Brienne said impatiently. “Think about it for a second. Why is this,” she gestured down at her long body sprawled against the couch, “something that anyone would have to ‘see past’?”

Jaime looked at her, perplexed. “I don’t think I’m following.”

“I mean, what kind of message does that send me? What kind of message does it send all the young girls watching the show who don’t happen to look like Taena? That maybe, if they are really, really lucky, someone will love them in spite of their appearance? That’s not revolutionary, that’s royally fucked-up.”

“Christ, here come the politics,” Jaime grumbled jokingly, taking a swig of his beer, trying to diffuse the moment and return them to their easy comradery. “How about we just watch the show without getting into a political discussion on the modern representation of women?”

Brienne gave a furious snort, grabbing the remote and turning off the television. Suddenly, she didn’t look at all exhausted.

“Hey!”

“You have no clue, do you? No fucking clue?”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say that ‘no’ is probably the answer you’re looking for right now,” Jaime joked, still thinking he could salvage this. “I mean, after all,” he held up his hand and stage whispered, “I am only a man.”

But Brienne wasn’t joking. She was dead serious. She nodded at Jaime, her expression set into a stern frown. “Do you know what it is like to play a character who is constantly abused for the way they look? The way they don't fit in with the norm?”

“No,” Jaime said, suddenly feeling like he was walking into a trap. “But I have the sinking suspicion that you’re going to tell me.”

“I started the show when I was fourteen, Jaime -- a year before you came,” she began. Her voice was still soft and calm, but her eyes were anything but. “And since day one, the most defining characteristic of Dunc Duncan was that she was big and massive and socially awkward -- and she was ruthlessly harassed for it. Almost all of my storylines revolved around that. Yet, Drogo, who played my brother mind you, and who was also big and massive and socially awkward, was never treated that way. Never. His character was just a super awesome basketball player, an endearingly awkward tough guy, a force to be reckoned with. No one ever commented on the way he looked or made fun of him or made bets about him. His storylines revolved around winning basketball championships, and dating different cheerleaders, and stupid, locker room fights with you, while mine were mostly about being the victim of hazing.”

“Yeah, but all that changed when Dunc got together with Roman,” Jaime pointed out. “When the love story began.”

“No it didn’t,” Brienne argued, incredulous that he could think so. “I still got made fun of all the damn time. In fact, it was almost worse when we got together. People couldn’t believe that your character would actually date someone like me -- someone so far beneath you. When we started dating on the show, that opened up a whole other level of criticism. A level of criticism that would have never happened if Dunc had stayed single or if she had been paired with someone like Sam’s character.”

Jaime looked at her in puzzlement. “Wait. I’m confused. Why are you so upset?”

“Gods,” she muttered, frowning at him. “You really are oblivious, aren’t you?” She shook her head, sighing. “OK --remember that article about us, about Dunc and Roman, that ran in that awful teen magazine? The title was something like -- _'A Modern Retelling of Beauty and the Beast_ '? The one that everyone oohed and ahhed over, and the writers were so proud of because someone figured out their insightful, little twist on convention?”

Jaime nodded his head cautiously.

“Well, just imagine that you’re the beast in that scenario. Just imagine that you are a sixteen year old girl, and the whole world is referring to you as a beast -- not because they’ve put you in animal make-up or a hideous mask, not because your character is awful and evil, but because you are tall and because you are big and because you don’t look like what a group of guys has determined is hot or pretty or feminine. Imagine how that might make you feel, as you are trying to figure out who you are and what your place in the world is.” She looked at him furiously.

He blinked at her, taken aback. _What the hells was going on?_

“And the really shitty thing in all of that was that I wasn’t. I wasn’t a goddamned beast. I was a six foot three girl who was growing into her body, as most adolescents are. I was fine. I was good. I was normal -- whatever the hell that means. I wasn’t a beast. I wasn’t disgusting. In fact, it may come as a complete shock to the writers and the audience and even to you, but some people actually find me attractive. Not in spite of my looks, but because of them. I’ll show you the fan mail from _Knights_ , if you don’t believe me.”

Jaime held up his hand. “Whoa, Whoa, Brienne, I hardly think …”

“You’re right! You hardly think!” she cut him off testily.

_Holy hells, what was even happening right now? Where was all of this coming from?_

“You and the writers and the directors and all the men, and even some of the women who are in charge of these stories that we tell and showcase and feed to young people -- you hardly think about the damage you cause with your labels and pigeonholing and ridiculous standards and conventions and fucking fairy tales.”

She inhaled sharply, taking a moment to compose herself, and Jaime took another sip of beer, afraid to say the wrong thing.

_Christ, why had he suggested they watch the damn show? That was a mistake. A very big mistake. But who knew she had so much anger about the whole thing?_

“Have you ever gone back and looked at the clips of the show that are posted on the internet?” Brienne asked suddenly. “Have you ever read through the comments there?”

Jaime groaned. “Jesus, Brienne. It was ten years ago.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” she snapped. “Well, let me save you some trouble and give you a general run-down of the opinion of the masses.” She pointed at him, a tight smile on her face. “You, Jaime, actually make out quite well. The general consensus is that you are dead sexy. You are the hottest fucking thing on the planet. Your face is so handsome that it should be registered as a deadly weapon. And apparently there are thousands of girls and some very lovely gentlemen who would be incredibly happy to sit on your face or to have you sit on theirs.”

Jaime chuckled at that, hoping to break the tension. He held up his beer bottle in joking acknowledgement. “Can’t fault them for their taste.”

“Me, however -- well, that’s a different story. Oh, there are the fans who are honestly supportive. Fans who identify with Dunc and are grateful for any sort of representation. However, I’d say it’s about half and half between people who are Brienne Tarth fans and people who may be fans, but they think that the way I look is … wrong. I’m too tall. Too big. Too awkward. Too unattractive. Too masculine. My nose is crooked. My smile is stupid. My hair is awful. My thighs are huge. My hands are massive. My tits are too small. My legs are like tree trunks. I don’t look normal. I look freakish. I look like a boy. I have a genetic condition. I’m way, way below your league and how could anyone even put the two of us together? I’m a joke. I’m awesome and amazing, but isn’t it so sad and unfortunate that I look the way I do.” She broke off, breathing hard. “And they think it’s OK -- it’s totally OK to talk about me like that publicly -- to talk about my body like that publicly.” She looked at him. “Why, Jaime? Why would they think it’s OK to do that?”

Jaime looked at her warily and shook his head. _He wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot pole._

“Because the characters in the show do that. Ron Connington and Hyle Hunt and Ben Bushy and Raina Webber and Taena Merryweather. And hell, even Roman did that. The writers of the show did that. The reviewers of the show did that. So why shouldn’t everybody else? I mean it’s just my fucking body -- my fucking face. Why shouldn’t it be up for debate?”

“Yeah, but to be fair, there were a lot of Dunc fans too,” Jaime protested doggedly. “Like you said, lots of people loved you. Identified with you. Hells, lots of them didn’t think I was good enough for you. My character got hate mail too. They constantly criticized poor Roman.”

“People criticized your character because he was an asshole. Because of his actions. They criticized my character because of her height or her size or her looks. And you know who else looked like my character? Me! I fucking did. And I had to hear -- daily -- how I had no worth because of the way I looked. How do you think all that bullshit affected my own self-perception? Because I can tell you, I didn’t find it revolutionary at all.”

She leaned forward on her knees, lowering her voice. “Newsflash, Jaime. Women are tired. We are so damn tired of having our appearance -- whether a man wants to fuck us or not -- used to define our stories -- used to define us. It’s not revolutionary. It’s goddamn exhausting.”

Jaime sat up in response to the pointed attack. “I don’t know why you are getting so mad at me, Brienne. I didn’t write the damn show. I didn’t write the insults.”

“Yeah, but you and bloody Cersei Baratheon and Aiden Saleth and all of those ‘awesome’ guys you hung around with made sure that those insults landed and landed well. That I damn well knew that I was just like Dunc. That I was -- all wrong. That I was a joke, a freak, a punchline. And I wasn’t, godsdamn it. I wasn’t. And Dunc wasn’t either.” She fell back against the couch cushions and closed her eyes.

“Christ, Brienne, where is all this coming from?” Jaime asked, changing tactics, trying to modulate his voice, keep it soft in a desperate attempt to get the conversation back on safer ground.“You make me out like I was a villain. I wasn’t that bad.”

She cracked open her eyes and turned her head to face him. “You were awful, Jaime,” she said quietly. “You should have heard some of the stuff that came out of your mouth back then.”

His chin came up at her accusation. “Please. You gave as good as you got.”

_This was ridiculous. What the hells was all this? Had she really been holding on to this resentment all this time? Why the fuck hadn’t she said anything earlier? Their truce had been going on for months now. He had told her his deepest fears -- shared the most pathetic parts of himself -- cried to her. And all this time she was secretly hating him? Blaming him for all of the shit that went down on set? It wasn’t all his fault -- no fucking way. She was an equal participant in all of it!_

She sat up. “I gave as good as I got? Are you serious?”

“Come on, it’s just what we did. You said awful things to me, I said awful things to you. It was just our thing.”

“Our thing? Really?” Her cheeks were bright red now.

“Besides, I was just a punk-ass kid back then.”

“Jaime, you were nineteen years old when you started _Westerosi_.”

“Like I said -- a kid. It was my first acting job. I didn’t know any better.”

“Surely you knew enough not to bully a fifteen year old child.”

“Fuck’s sake, Brienne. I didn’t bully you,” Jaime cried, gobsmacked that she would make such a statement. _A bully? Was she being serious?_

“We just didn’t care for each other and argued a lot. If I had a dragon for every scathing insult you threw my way, every time you criticized my intelligence or my ideas or my acting, I’d be a very rich man… “ He looked around the room. “Well, richer anyway. It was just our thing. Besides, you were hardly a kid. Hell, you were taller, bigger, and way more mature than I ever was.”

“Oh, then I guess that makes your bullying OK, then. Silly me.”

“It wasn’t bullying,” he insisted. “We didn’t get along. Hells, I don’t get along with most of the people I act with. Just ask my agent.”

Brienne was silent for a moment, her breathing quick and shallow. “What about the kiss?”

“What kiss?” Jaime looked puzzled.

“Our first kiss -- the first kiss between the characters.”

“I don’t even remember it.”

“Oh, well let me remind you then. You put your fucking tongue in my mouth.”

Jaime smiled a sardonic smile. “Brienne, that was half of our kissing scenes.” He gestured to the television. “Were you not just watching?”

“Not this one. The blocking didn’t say anything about that.”

“Since when have we ever stuck to the blocking? You know as well as I do that most of the reason we worked so well together as an onscreen couple is because we improvised. What about the time you slapped me? I don’t recall you getting my permission first.”

“That was different.”

“How was it different?”

“I wasn’t making fun of you. The kiss. You were making it a joke. Making me a joke -- pretending like you couldn’t help yourself -- like you were overcome with desire for poor, plodding, pathetic Brienne. All because you didn’t want me as a love interest.”

“And you wanted me as a love interest?” Jaime huffed indignantly. “You’ve just been yelling about how you couldn’t even stand being around me.”

“Because you were an asshole!” she said, raising her voice.

“Then why did you care that I didn’t want them to write us as a couple?” Jaime said, frustrated. “Imagine how much grief it could have saved the both of us, if they had listened to me.”

“Because you made me feel like shit, Jaime. You made me feel like it was a bloody chore having to kiss me. Because you just freaking shoved your tongue in my mouth without warning me. Because you used me in your stupid protest without even consulting me.”

Jaime looked at her in exasperation. “Honestly, I don’t remember it.”

“Christ, Jaime. I bit you,” Brienne cried in irritation, throwing her arms out. “I fucking bit your tongue. How can you not remember?”

“Oh …” Jaime stopped, his face scrunched in concentration. “Shit ... yeah.” He grimaced, rubbing his jaw at the memory.

_Damn -- his stupid, little protest. Not one of his better ideas; and it had ended up totally backfiring. But of course, she would remember that._

He sighed and shook his head. “Probably not my best moment. But no one was listening to me. I was pissed.”

“Not your best moment! Do you hear yourself? They weren’t listening to you so -- what? You did whatever the hell you wanted, and damn what Brienne wants!”

“Brienne, it wasn’t really about you. I was mad at the writers.”

“Well, hmm… it was me that you were kissing and my character that you didn’t want involved with yours, so I think it actually was about me, Jaime.”

“Shit,” Jaime gritted out, incredibly annoyed that the night was ending up like this.

_Hells, this was just what he needed. One more person pointing out what a fuck-up he was. And he didn’t need it. He really didn’t need it. He was quite adept at pointing that out himself._

“I’m sorry. Is that what you want me to say? I’m sorry I wasn’t nice to you. I’m sorry I kissed you -- that I apparently included you in my protest without consulting you. Fuck, Brienne, it was ten years ago. I was a kid. I don’t remember half of it.”

“Well, lucky you. How wonderful that you are able to just forget it. Because, let me tell you, it will be a long time before I forget how revolutionary the whole experience was. But you go ahead and sit there. Go ahead and tell me that it was no big deal. That they were just words. That I need to let bygones be bygones. That _‘jeez, Brienne, we were just kids. We didn’t know better.’_ Jaime, I was fifteen, and I knew better.”

_Fuck that. If she wanted a fight, he’d give her a fight._

“Oh please! You act like you were so perfect back then. As if you weren’t judging me the whole time. I knew exactly what was going through your mind every time you looked at me -- ‘stupid, untalented, trust fund hack of an actor.’ Do you remember how you always used to correct me at read throughs? That condescending smile you used to get every time I mispronounced something? Remember when you went to the writers and told them that Dunc would never go for Roman because he wasn’t smart enough? You were just as bad as I was.”

“I was not,” she defended. “Not even close. You were in a league of your own. You and Cersei Baratheon.” She shuddered, remembering. “Gods, Cersei was the worst.”

“Don’t even start on Cersei, Brienne,” Jaime said warningly, his voice low.

“Oh yes, come to Cersei bloody Baratheon’s defense,” Brienne groused. “Be the ever gallant knight for Cersei whose favorite sport was tormenting anyone whom she deemed beneath her. But if I ever needed support, you ran the other way.”

“You never needed anything,” Jaime gritted out. “You made that quite clear.”

“Not true,” Brienne said quietly. “What about that time when I was renegotiating my contract, and Baelish was being a dick about paying me more? I could have used your support then.” She bit her lip and shook her head. “Damn it, Jaime. Did you think it was fair? The fact that I made so much less than you made? We did the same job. The same damn job. And I was paid half of what you were paid.”

“That wasn’t my fault! I don’t control the whole fucking television industry!” he exclaimed, his anger getting the best of him.

“True. It wasn’t your fault that I wasn’t paid what I was worth. But the fact that you didn’t say anything -- you didn’t speak up -- that was on you.” Brienne huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “But then why care about Brienne Tarth, right? I was just a big, overgrown, speed bump that you had to run over on your way to becoming Jaime Lannister, international superstar.”

Jaime looked as if she had slapped him, his face freezing into a mask of cold fury. “I honestly can’t believe…” He shook his head. “Gods, you look at me as if I was ....”

“The truth of the matter is,” Brienne cut him off, angry tears building in the corners of her eyes, “you were awful to me, until you needed something from me. Until you were scared and hurting and needed something. And I came, godsdamn it. Like a pathetic fool I came running when you called, despite my better judgement. And I’m still here, all these months later, trying to convince myself that I’m not being stupid, that I’m not being gullible and naive, because surely you’ve had time to reflect. Surely you are sorry. Surely you’ll apologize to me when you figure out how to. You just need to find the right words, right?” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. “But, no, you don’t even realize that you’ve done anything wrong. You have no freaking clue about the damage that you’ve done. You just want to be friends, pals. Watch _Westerosi_ together and reminisce about the good, old days. You want to just pretend that all of what we went through didn’t happen or didn’t matter or it’s water under the bridge.” She looked at him, breathing hard. “But it did happen, and it did matter, and that fucking bridge should have been condemned a long, long time ago.”

Jaime’s face closed, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

When he turned to her, his green eyes were eerily distant. “Well, if that’s truly how you feel about it, Brienne, then maybe all of this was a mistake.” His voice had taken on a tone Brienne was unfamiliar with: cold, clipped, detached. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have come out here. Come to visit. In fact, maybe it would be better for all parties concerned, if you didn’t spend time around me at all.”

She exhaled shakily, the color high in her cheeks. “Maybe it would be,” she croaked, her voice hoarse with emotion.

They sat there in awkward silence for a long moment, neither of them willing to rise to the bait, until finally, finally, Brienne turned and started gathering up her belongings, fumbling to find her shoes and stuffing them back on her feet, before rising.

Halfway to the door, she stopped, turning back to Jaime.

“I …” she looked away, not able to meet his eye. She cleared her throat, fumbling with her jacket, then shook her head, seeming to think the better of what she was going to say. “Um … have a good night, Jaime,” she said instead, looking at the wall above his head.

Jaime looked up at her, his face coldly impassive. “Have a good life, Brienne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit. But the only way to heal a wound is to draw out all of the nasty infection. 
> 
> Keep the faith, my friends. 
> 
> And thank you again for all of the lovely support that you’ve shown this fic. I’m so sorry to repay you with such a downer of a chapter, but it had to be done. It will get better soon. I promise. They both just need to process.💖


	13. When You're Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tries to figure shit out. Brienne tries to figure shit out. Varys tries to figure shit out. Shit remains coquettishly elusive.

**“When You’re Gone”**

**The Cranberries**

**“And in the day,**   
**Everything’s complex**   
**There’s nothing simple**   
**When I’m not around you.**

**But I miss you when you’re gone,**   
**That is what I do,**   
**Bay-bay- by.**   
**And it’s going to carry on**   
**That is what I knew.**   
**Bay-bay -by.”**

**~~~~~~**

**Four Days Later:**

“And how was your visit with Brienne?”

Dr. Elder looked up from the notebook in which he was scribbling notes, his eyebrows raising minutely in question.

Jaime sighed and turned away.

He had hoped to skip over all of this.

It had been four days since Brienne had walked out of his flat; but the wound was still fresh and throbbing. He’d been doing his best to compartmentalize it -- to lock it away and not think of it. However, it kept creeping in -- that nasty, swampy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t even have the language to name.

He felt like an idiot. An emotionally stunted idiot who didn’t know how to feel -- how to react -- how to settle on an actual response that lasted for more than a few minutes at a time.

At first, he had been angry about the ambush. That Brienne had come into his home under the pretense of visiting him in his recovery and launched such a brutal attack. And then he had felt guilty that she was so hurt and that he seemed to be the cause of it, even though he didn’t remember things the same way as she did and knew there was no way that it could all be his fault. No damn way! And then he felt angry again -- angry that she had pretended to be so nice to him, pretended to care about his recovery, when all the while she was feeling such resentment towards him and thinking that he was such an awful person. And then he had felt relief that, at least, he didn’t have to pretend to be something that he wasn’t anymore-- at least, he no longer had to live up to her impossible expectations, since he had already blown those all to hell, and she hated him. Honestly, it was so much easier just to play the villain again for her -- without the pressure to be better than he was -- to be a better man than he was. And then he felt guilty again, because he wasn’t that better man, and surely Brienne deserved ...

“Jaime?” Dr. Elder broke into his mental tirade.

“Yeah,” Jaime breathed out, running a hand through his hair and looking out of the window to avoid Dr. Elder’s assessing gaze.

It had been threatening to storm all day now, dark, angry clouds building up against the skyline of King’s Landing. And Jaime watched, as the clouds met and bubbled up and over each other like angry waves.

“Uh, well, not good,” he finally replied. “Brienne and I are no longer friends.”

Jaime shifted on the couch uncomfortably. “I mean we really weren’t friends to begin with, but we’re no longer … uh talking, I guess.”

Dr. Elder nodded his head, his face neutral. “Why are you no longer talking?”

Jaime let out a breath, keeping his eyes trained on a bird that was slowly making its way through the mass of moving clouds, a spot of black against their grayish darkness.

“Honestly, I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

That was the truth. He really didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t even want to think about it, though it was constantly playing in the back of his consciousness like the ticker tape of a horrifying news-crawl. In fact, before his appointment, Jaime had thought very seriously about lying, about telling Elder that the visit with Brienne had gone well, just to avoid having to discuss it. Hells, Jaime was used to shutting everything away deep inside and no one being the wiser. Why should this be any different?

However, there was something about this room with its neutral, beige interior -- about Dr. Elder and his neutral, beige, expression that just wouldn’t let Jaime lie. But that didn’t mean he had to talk about it. He was the one paying, for Christ’s sake.

“Hmm…” Dr. Elder mused impassively. “You and Brienne aren’t talking anymore, and you don’t want to talk about the reason why you are not talking.” He smiled a bland smile, cocking his head slightly to one side. “That makes things a bit difficult on my end, now doesn’t it?”

Jaime grunted, still not looking at him.

“OK, so without mentioning what that ‘it’ is, let’s see if we can, at least, uncover why you don’t want to discuss ‘it.’ How would talking about ‘it’ make you feel?”

Jaime exhaled tiredly. “I don’t know, guilty, I guess.”

“Guilty about what?”

_Shit, fucking Elder._

_There was no way he was going to ever win against the good doctor. Stupid even to try. And maybe Elder could help him figure out how the fuck to feel about all of this -- to feel about himself -- to feel about Brienne. Only … did he really want to figure it out? Was he even ready to figure it out?_

“Guilty about how everything went down.” Jaime blew out a breath of frustration. “Shit, I don’t know. Look, the visit was fine -- good. But then we started talking about the past -- back when we worked together. And apparently, Brienne has been harboring some really strong anger.”

“Anger towards what?”

“Towards me.”

Jaime picked up the coaster that was sitting on the coffee table, palming it in his left hand distractedly.

“And you had no idea that she felt these feelings?”

“No!” Jaime said, his voice emphatic.

He turned the coaster in his hand, his fingers working against its smooth edges. “That’s just it. I had no idea. I mean I knew we didn’t have the easiest history.” He shook his head. “Hells, it’s no secret that we never got along when we worked together. But then, after the accident, she came out to visit -- helped me all of these months; and I thought we had just moved past it. I didn’t think it was a big deal anymore. I certainly didn’t see it as a big deal.”

“But she felt differently?”

“Yes,” Jaime replied flatly. “Apparently she still really hates me.”

“Hates you?” Dr. Elder’s voice raised in question. “Hate is a pretty strong word, Jaime. Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t Brienne been one of your biggest supports throughout your recovery?”

“That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,” Jaime said frustrated. “That’s the part that I can’t figure out. If she still hates me so much, what has she been doing these past months? I don’t get it. I mean, I thought we were past it. I thought there were no hard feelings about all that bullshit that went down.”

“Hmm …” Dr. Elder mused. “Well, first, why don’t you explain to me a little about ‘all that bullshit that went down.’ Explain to me why you think Brienne hates you.”

Jaime frowned, looking down at the coaster, before setting it back on the table. “Well, like I said, we didn’t have the greatest working relationship. I did some things in the past --- said some things to her.” He looked up at Dr. Elder. “Honestly, I don’t remember it being all that bad. Workplace rivalry, you know, back-and-forth sparing, although I don’t remember a lot of it. But she does.” He blew out a breath. “Hells, she seems to remember everything I ever said -- every negative word and insult.”

“You insulted her, then?”

“Well, yeah. We insulted each other.”

Dr. Elder looked at him curiously.

“We were kind of known for being awful to each other. It was our thing,” Jaime said defensively.

“That’s a strange thing to be known for,” Dr. Elder mused.

“Look, it’s just how we were. I was nineteen when we first started working together. A cocky, selfish, little asshole bound and determined that I was going to make a name for myself in this business and prove my father wrong. And Brienne… well, she was this young, geeky, nobody. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her much, except that our characters were just kind of pushed together.” Jaime paused, trying to puzzle out exactly how to explain it.

“I fought against it -- the pairing, I mean. Making us a couple. But they pushed us together anyway. And I wasn’t happy about being pushed. I thought I knew my character better than the writers did. But, of course, they weren’t going to listen to a idiotic, nineteen year old rookie with no experience. All they cared about was the connection Brienne and I had as actors -- the chemistry between us. They wanted to milk that for everything they could. So they made us into a couple, despite my arguments. And then.... I guess I took my frustration out on Brienne instead.”

“Took it out how? By insulting her?”

“Look,” Jaime huffed. “It sounds worse than it was because you are not a part of the industry.”

He sat up on the couch, turning towards Dr. Elder. “You have to understand what it’s like on a television set -- in this business. It’s a fucking combat zone. You are picked apart and judged constantly from the day you first walk on to a set. That’s just the culture. You get used to it. There’s no other choice, because you have to deal with rejection and criticism all the damn time. There are a million parts you don’t get because you are too big or too small or too awkward or too unattractive or your voice is off-putting or your face is all wrong. And then sometimes you get a part and are told that you’re perfect for it; but come time to shoot, the director pulls you aside and tells you to lose ten pounds or shave your head, or basically starve yourself and not drink water for a week in order to get the right look.”

Jaime ran a distracted hand through his hair again, mussing it up. “It’s like swimming in a pool of sharks, trying to stay afloat, never knowing when the next attack is going to come. Everyone on set is constantly talking about this person’s face or that person’s weight gain or this person’s botched boob job. It’s all about your look. And Brienne … well, she doesn’t have the traditional television looks, so comments were made.”

“By you?”

Jaime raised his chin. “By everyone. But, yeah, by me.”

“And she was hurt?”

“Yeah, apparently so. But you have to have thick skin in this business. You can’t expect not to get comments, especially when you look the way that she does.”

“How does she look?

“Well, I mean …,” Jaime scratched his neck, his face heating. “She looks different. She’s huge for one. Taller than me.”

“And this makes her unattractive?”

Jaime picked up the coaster again. “Look, when I first met Brienne, she was this geeky kid with big teeth and braces and freckles and crazy white hair. And she’s just really, really massive. If you saw her from behind, you’d think she was a guy. She’s … well, let’s just say she’s not your traditional leading lady.”

“OK. So what is she then?” Dr. Elder prompted.

“I don’t know,” Jaime shook his head. “Different. Not normally what you see on screen.”

“And because of the way she looked, she faced harassment?”

“Well, yeah,” Jaime said. “Of course. But she didn’t do herself any favors either. She always acted so stuck up and condescending. Like she was better than everyone -- a better person than everyone else.”

“And this annoyed you?”

“She annoyed me. I mean it didn’t make sense. She was this big, awkward kid who shouldn’t have made it in this business.”

“Because she wasn’t a good actor?”

“No, no,” Jaime protested, shaking his head vehemently. “She was a great actor -- is a great actor. One of the best I’ve ever worked with.”

“So then, it had nothing to do with her talent? She shouldn’t have made it in the business because of her looks?”

“Yeah,” Jaime said, frowning at how awful it sounded coming out of his mouth. He turned back to look out the window, bringing the coaster to rest on his thigh.

“And so people harassed her? Because she shouldn’t have been there?” Dr. Elder prodded.

“Yeah.”

“And you harassed her?”

“Well,” Jaime hedged. “I wasn’t very nice to her. Made sure that she knew that I didn’t want my character to be linked with her as a couple.”

“And you did that why?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime said, shaking his head. “I was mad. I wanted different things for my character -- hot girls and flashy storylines -- what every teenage boy wants. I didn’t want to be linked to this huge, overgrown, awkward kid. And then we acted together, and she was good -- much better than I was. And I guess I felt threatened and angry that she was so young and annoying and … wrong for the industry, and yet still out-acted me every time. And she was such an easy target. It’s not like everyone wasn’t thinking the same thing I was -- saying the same things I was.” He tightened his hand on the coaster, looking up at Dr. Elder defensively. “I wasn’t even the worst one. That was Cersei, hands down.”

“This is your girlfriend, Cersei?”

“Yes.” Jaime said belligerently, squaring his shoulders, as if preparing for a fight.

Dr. Elder paused for a moment, studying Jaime’s posture, before jotting down something in his notes. “Why don’t you tell me a little about Cersei,” he said finally, looking back up at Jaime. “We haven’t spoken much of her. You two have been together for such a long time. What attracted you to her?”

Jaime scratched his neck, eyeing Dr. Elder, suspicious of the subject change. Finally, he spoke, his tone cautious and precise. “When I first met Cersei, I felt like I found the second half of myself,” Jaime started. “We looked so much alike -- still look so much alike, baring the whole hand thing.” He looked down at his stump, frowning. “And we were living parallel lives. We were both from wealthy families. We both had distant fathers who didn’t recognize our potential. We both were discouraged from acting but were bound and determined to be famous.”

“Being famous was important to you?”

“Well, yeah,” Jaime replied. “Although it was more important to Cersei. I just wanted to be good at what I was doing. To be successful. She’s the one who wanted fame -- wanted name recognition. And she wanted that for me too. She believed in me. And I guess no one really had believed in me before. Expected things from me but didn’t believe in me.”

“But she believed in you?”

“She believed in me like no other.” Jaime smiled wistfully. “She would tell me that I was made for great things -- that I deserved more than the storylines I was getting -- that we both deserved more than this cheesy, predictable show for teens.”

“So she didn’t like _Westerosi_?”

Jaime shook his head. “She saw it the same way that I did, as a stepping stone to greater things. She was convinced that we were going to conquer the industry. With our looks and talent and influence, the world was ours to take.”

“And I take it that Cersei didn’t get along with Brienne on set?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Jaime said, grimacing. “They hated each other.” He huffed out a sarcastic laugh, running the edge of the coaster along the side of his knee. “I can’t imagine two people more different.”

“But you and Cersei were alike?”

“Incredibly so.” Jaime fell silent for a moment, staring out the window.

“Like recognizes like, you know? I met her and felt an instant connection.”

“A connection?” Dr. Elder’s voice rose in a question. “Was the connection you felt with Cersei like the connection you had with Brienne when you were acting together?”

“No!” Jaime cried hurriedly. “Well … maybe? It was different, though -- what I had with Cersei. What I have with Cersei,” he corrected.

“And this connection is still strong? You talk quite a bit about Brienne’s role in your recovery. Has Cersei also been a support?”

“Yes, of course,” Jaime said, annoyed at the question. “Of course she has. She’s been working in Dorne, though. I’ve talked about that. On a movie. She hasn’t really had many opportunities to visit.”

“So Brienne’s stepped in there -- filled that role in your recovery?”

“I don’t really see it like that,” Jaime frowned. “They’ve both been supportive.”

“But they don’t get along?”

“Not at all.”

“Because, back on _Westerosi_ , Cersei harassed Brienne -- targeted her? And you went along with it?”

“Like I said, you don’t know the culture of a set,” Jaime defended, frustration lacing his tone. “It’s a whole different environment; and it’s filled to the brink with incredibly insecure people who are all fighting for the same parts -- the same screen time -- the same fame. You just get caught up in things. I got caught up in things.”

“So it was peer pressure then, that caused you to target Brienne?”

“Yeah … Well, maybe -- partially. I don’t really know. I was angry that I wasn’t being listened to. And she was so different. She just didn’t really belong. Most people felt that way. And then she started giving me shit back -- getting on me about being selfish and entitled, pointing out every mistake I made. And then fighting just sort of became our thing.”

“So this continued for the five years you worked together?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Elder steepled his fingers under his chin. “So I guess my question then is, if you treated her like this for five years, for your entire working relationship, why has she been helping you these past months? I find it interesting that the woman who loves you seems too busy to help you, and the woman whom you insist hates you has been here the whole time?”

“It’s not like Cersei can just decide not to do this movie. It’s important!” Jaime said angrily. “I’d never want to stand in the way of her career. I’d never ask her to put me before a movie. She’d never ask that of me.”

“All right,” Dr. Elder said placidly. “But Brienne is also working, is she not?”

Jaime nodded stiffly. He let the coaster fall to the couch cushion beside him.

“So then why is Brienne helping you, considering your history together?”

Jaime shrugged. “I don’t really know how to answer that, other than to say that she’s a good person. She helps people, regardless of if they deserve it or not.”

Dr. Elder exhaled thoughtfully, writing something down in his notebook. After a few quiet moments, he looked up. “Jaime, you are going to have to help me understand this,” he said, leaning forward and consulting his notes. “According to you Brienne is a talented actor and a good person. She helps people regardless of how they treat her or whether or not they are deserving of help. So then why did you dislike her so much? Why did you target her? Why did it continue for five years? Just because she looked different and didn’t fit in?”

Jaime hung his head, feeling the flush of guilt wash over him.

_This was what he was afraid of. This was why he didn’t want to discuss it in the first place. Because if he discussed it, there was a good chance that he was going to have to face the very real fact that most of the awful things Brienne had said about him were true._

“I don’t know. Shit, I don’t know. I mean I felt threatened by her talent too. But I don’t know why I was so awful to her. I think I just got caught up in all of it -- in the culture of the set. Or maybe I was just an awful person. Maybe I still am. And then she started hating me, and then I had a reason to be awful to her …” he trailed off.

“And Brienne brought all of this up this past weekend, I take it?”

“Yeah,” he said miserably. “I made her watch some old episodes of the show we were on.”

“Ah,” Dr. Elder nodded.

“And then she went off about how toxic the whole show environment was and how it broke her down and how horrible I was to her and how it still affects her to this day.”

“And how did you react?”

“I was shocked. I mean I knew we hadn’t gotten along. Hells, before this, we hadn’t spoken to each other in ten years. But I didn’t realize how angry she still was. I didn’t know how hurt she still was.”

“And when you found out how hurt and angry she was, what did you do?”

“I told her she shouldn’t be around me anymore.”

“And so it was you that ended things?” Dr. Elder tapped his pen against the desk thoughtfully.

Jaime huffed. “I think we both did. I think I told her she shouldn’t be around me, and she agreed. And then she left.”

“Tell me, Jaime. Did you ever try to apologize for your past behavior?”

“Yeah ... I mean, kind of.” He kept his eyes focused on the dark clouds building outside. “Look, I was just taken so much by surprise, you know? I mean we had just gone to dinner and were sitting around talking. And then I had the brilliant idea to watch the damn show. And she said no, but I didn’t listen, unfortunately. And then all hell broke loose; and, before I knew it, she was storming out.”

Jaime sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, before turning to look at Dr. Elder. “It’s good, though. That’s what I keep telling myself. It’s better this way, in the end.”

Dr. Elder looked at him questioningly.

“If she was that hurt by me, it’s better for her not to be around me.”

“Why?”

“Hells, Elder, you’re the therapist. You should know that it’s important to keep away from toxic things -- from toxic people. It’s Therapy 101,” Jaime tried to joke, but the bitter taste in his mouth made the joke fall flat.

“And you feel like you’re toxic?”

“Maybe. Maybe to her, at least.” He shook his head, picking up the coaster again and running the edge against his jawline.

After a few silent moments of contemplation, he spoke. “Look, I’m not a good person. I’ve never really been. Ask anyone. I’m a Lannister. I’ve been raised to put myself first -- my family first. Damn everything else, you know. And then, in school, I just learned -- well, you learn to attack before you’re attacked -- to wound before you’re wounded -- to recognize a threat and best it, before it can get the better of you. It’s all I’ve ever known. And, I mean, the proof is in the pudding isn’t it? Look at how I treated her? I hurt her. I didn’t know I was doing it at the time.” He shook his head. “Or maybe I did. Maybe I knew, and it was just easier to keep doing it.” He grunted. “Shit, what kind of person does that? How much of a self-absorbed asshole do you have to be to do that?”

“And you feel like you are still the same person as you were ten years ago?”

“I don’t know. I mean obviously, some things have changed.” He held up his stump. “But it’s not like all of a sudden I lost a hand and gained a conscience. Things don’t work that way, do they? And then I hurt her again. She told me everything, explained everything; and I didn’t believe her. Told her she was wrong. Told her that she was as bad as I was.”

“Is that true?”

“No,” Jaime’s voice was quiet, defeated.

“So why did you say it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to see myself the way she saw me, maybe. I didn’t want to believe it. Who would?”

“Do you believe it now?”

“Maybe,” he croaked, looking up at the window. “Yeah... I think I do. I think I believe it. I think she’s probably right.”

“Have you told her that?”

“No. Like I said, we’re not talking.”

“Will you tell her that? When you are talking again?”

“I think …” Jaime trailed off. “I think right now it’s better for her not to be around me.”

“And you think that she feels the same?”

“I know she does.”

Dr. Elder wrote something down in his notebook, while Jaime went back to watching the storm outside.

“Tell me, Jaime, why did you call Brienne after the accident?”

Startled, Jaime looked over at him. “Damned if I know.”

“Don’t you find it strange that, of all the people in your life, the one person you called was someone with whom you had a contentious relationship? Someone whom you couldn’t stand being around? Someone whom you hated?”

“I didn’t hate her,” Jaime shook his head in protest. “I never hated her. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain this whole damn session -- badly, I guess. Brienne annoyed me. She was so damn good -- in her acting, her character, her interactions with people. She just reminded me of … shit, I don’t know, someone who was better than I was. It was like she was just this constant reminder of who I wasn’t. And she judged me so damn much. I could just feel the disappointment radiating off of her, every time she saw me. I could just feel how much she didn’t want to be around me -- how she wished I was better than I was. And I couldn’t stand being around her either. And then they kept throwing us together. And we were so good together on screen. We had so much chemistry -- like we knew each other on this deep, fundamental level, which didn’t make sense at all. And, Christ, I was a kid, and I just treated her like shit because it was easier, you know? Easier to just keep her away from me.”

Jaime looked up at Dr. Elder, his expression pained. “I think I treated her like that because … I didn’t want to see myself the way she saw me -- or maybe I saw myself in her and couldn’t handle it -- or maybe I just went along with all the shit so no one could realize that I was a sham and target me. I don’t know.”

“But to return to the original question,” Dr. Elder prompted. “Why did you call her? On the night before your amputation? Why her, of all people?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime said miserably. “I was scared.”

“And you thought she would make you less scared?”

“Maybe.”

“Weren’t you afraid that she wouldn’t take your call -- that she wouldn’t talk to you because of your past behavior towards her?”

“No,” Jaime said softly. “I knew she’d talk to me.”

“Because she’s a good person?”

“Yeah.”

“And because she’s a good person, she’s been there for you all of these months, taking your calls and coming out to visit you, talking you through your difficulties, despite your history together -- despite how much you’ve hurt her?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Jaime blinked rapidly, looking out the window.

“Tell me, Jaime,” Dr. Elder said quietly. “You say that it’s better for Brienne to not be around you. But is it better for you to not be around her?”

“I…” he broke off.

The light from the window became muted and dull as the sky darkened. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not about me.”

He watched as the gray clouds finally opened up, and the dark heaviness of the rain fell on the shadowed buildings.

“I’m bad for her. I hurt her. I’m only just now realizing the extent of it, but I did. And I don’t want to remind her of that -- force her to spend time with someone she hates.”

“And she hates you? You’re sure?”

“She hates me.” Jaime leaned forward, placing the coaster back on the table in front of him decisively.

“Well,” Dr. Elder said, his voice solemn and serious. “It seems to me that she has a very strange way of showing it.”

**~~~~~~**

**Two Weeks Later:**

Brienne turned off the kettle and rummaged in her tiny cabinet for the tea bags.

She should just go to bed. It was going to be a big couple of days coming up; and she could use all the sleep she could get. Not that she was getting much sleep these days. No, since she had returned back to set from her disaster of a visit to King’s Landing, Brienne hadn’t really been sleeping at all. She tried. But every time she laid her head on her pillow, her mind kept replaying her fight with Jaime.

She didn’t regret it -- couldn’t regret it -- speaking her truth. It had been there, between them all of these past months, nudging her, prodding her to acknowledge it. And she had wanted to say something earlier. But Jaime had seemed so fragile, as if all it would take was one more thing to send him spinning over the edge permanently. Besides, she had desperately wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt -- believe that it was prodding him too -- that he would address it when he had the tools to do so. She had desperately wanted to believe that he was a better man than the one he had been all those years ago.

But, he hadn’t called.

It had been weeks, and he hadn’t called -- hadn’t texted -- hadn’t reached out or apologized.

Honestly, she had cried more tears over it than she liked to admit. Which was stupid. Incredibly stupid. Because hadn’t she come to terms with all of this a long time ago? Put the whole _Westerosi_ episode and the need to right that particular wrong behind her? She had done all of the hard work -- all of the fucking hours in therapy to confront it, process it, and let it go enough to move forward. She had. But being with Jaime brought everything back up again. Their fight had brought everything back up again. And the betrayal felt fresh, red, -- sharp. Maybe because it wasn’t asshole Jaime from ten years ago who betrayed her this time. It was present day Jaime who seemed like he might even be her friend. Seemed like he appreciated her -- liked her -- cared about what happened to her.

But she hadn’t heard a word from him.

Brienne dumped her tea bag in the hot water, checking her phone one last time.

Nothing.

She had been tempted to call him, just to check on him -- check that he hadn’t spiraled down into depression again, which was pathetic because why should she be concerned with him when she was the one who had been hurt? She had almost called Tyrion a million times just to make sure Jaime was OK. But she had stopped herself. She couldn’t keep rescuing people at the expense of herself. Her therapist had told her that over and over and over again. Brienne had to take a stand. Had to demand something for herself. Had to deal with the giant elephant in the room. Force Jaime to deal with it too. Although more and more it seemed like, if given the choice, Jaime would pick the fucking elephant over her every time.

Tyrion had called her right after it had all gone down.

She had briefly explained what had happened and told him that she needed space right now; and, to his credit, Tyrion had respected her wishes. Every now again she got a brief text from him -- mostly hearts and crying face emojis.

But nothing from Jaime.

Really, she should be relieved not to have to worry about Jaime anymore -- not to have the weekly phone calls and texts and full-on, late night counseling sessions. However, she just felt empty. And hurt. Hurt that she had spilled out everything to him -- told him to his face how much that time on _Westerosi_ had damaged her -- how much he had damaged her. And he hadn’t been sorry or contrite -- just shocked that she had said anything and angry that she was accusing him.

She had held out hope that, once Jaime had processed everything, he would reach out. But he hadn’t -- which hurt almost more than his initial actions all those years ago.

How could he not miss talking to her? Was she so dispensable to him that he could just cut her off completely and not look back?

The whole thing made her feel like crying -- again.

There was a knock on her trailer door, and Brienne frowned, once more checking her phone. It was 8:00. Production was shut down for the night.

_Who in hells would be calling at this hour?_

She reached a hand up to her face, surprised once again to find tears. Brushing them away, she rose, frowning down at her ratty, flannel pajamas.

_Gods, she must_ _look a sight. But then, anyone who would pay an unexpected visit at eight PM on a work day, deserved what they got._

She flipped on the outside light and pulled the metal door open, keeping the door between her body and the visitor, just to be safe.

Robb stood on the steps of the trailer, blinking into the bright halogen light. He was dressed casually in a black sweatshirt, track pants, and a beanie -- a huge paper bag in his hand.

“Hi?” Brienne said, looking at him questioningly and hoping that it was dark enough that the evidence of her tears didn’t show.

Robb smiled, his cheeks red. “Hey. I brought supplies.”

“Supplies?” 

Robb peered into the giant bag. “Ice cream, chips, alcohol, candy.”

Brienne gave him a puzzled look. “Are you planning on getting sick so you don’t have to go to work tomorrow?”

“No. It’s for you,” Robb laughed, his face breaking out in a boyish grin.

“For me?”

He nodded. “I have two sisters. Break-ups seem to be a weekly occurrence at my house.” He shook the bag. “This seems to be the cure.”

Brienne sighed and rolled her eyes. “Robb, I didn’t break up with anyone.”

“I know,” he said. “But you’ve seemed pretty down since you got back from King’s Landing. I thought this would help. Get your mind off Lannister.”

“My mind is not on Lannister,” Brienne huffed, annoyed at his assumption and then annoyed again at his accuracy.

Robb shrugged and rifled around in his bag, pulling out a container of ice cream. “OK, whatever you say, Brienne. But this is salted caramel cashew chunk, and I brought hot fudge and whipped cream to go with it. Oh, and some decent gin, just in case we want to drown our sorrows. I mean, if we have any sorrows -- which you may not.”

Brienne laughed at that and pulled open the door all the way, stepping back to let him in. “Well hells, man. Don’t just stand there, letting all the heat out. Come in. Come in. Never let it be said that Brienne Tarth turned away a man bearing ice cream.”

Robb squeezed past her and into the kitchen area of the trailer, where he proceeded to pull out every snack food known to humankind.

Brienne watched amazed. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

Robb shrugged, rummaging in the cabinet for bowls and spoons. He had been in her trailer many times, but Brienne was still taken aback by the comfort he displayed, as he busied himself in her kitchen.

“Totally worth it,” Robb replied, pulling out a bag of toffee pieces. “Have you had these? Fucking amazing.”

He fumbled in the cabinet for two tumblers and handed them to Brienne with a bottle of gin. “Here. Pour us a drink, and I’ll dish out the ice cream.”

Brienne retreated to the table, and poured a generous serving of alcohol. She’d most likely regret this come tomorrow morning. But right now, the idea of dulling things a bit sounded amazing. She took a large swallow, feeling the astringent liquid move through her.

“Shit. That’s good.”

Robb turned from where he was warming up hot fudge in the microwave. “See. What did I tell you? It's the ultimate cure all.”

Brienne smiled, lifting up her glass to toast him. “Pretty and smart. Aren’t you just the total package, Robby Stark?”

Instead of blushing like he normally did, Robb raised his eyebrows cheekily and gave her a rakish grin, turning back to his task when the microwave dinged.

Before long he had assembled two massive ice cream sundaes. He brought them over to the table, grabbing his glass of gin and holding it up in a toast.

“Here’s to doing and drinking, not sitting and thinking.”

Brienne smiled and reached out to clink her glass with his. “Amen,” she agreed, taking another long gulp.

Brienne was on her second gin and finishing up her bowl of ice cream, when Robb drained his glass and set it back on the table with a clank. “All right,” he said, looking her in the eye. “Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?” Brienne said, smiling. The gin was going right to her head. She took another bite of ice cream, hoping she could slow down the effects of the alcohol, if she consumed enough fat and sugar.

“Hear why you are so sad. I mean you were pretty happy when you left Winterfell. My crazy family didn’t traumatize you too much. But then you came back early from King’s Landing. And, despite what you say, you’ve been sad. So I can only assume that Lannister did something to make you sad.”

Brienne sighed and shook her head, taking another gulp from her glass. She didn’t want to think about it anymore than she had to. However, at least Robb was concerned. At least, Robb wanted her to feel better.

“Jaime’s.... well, he’s an ass,” she said finally, waving her hand in the direction of her phone, trying to keep her voice light. “I don’t know why I expected him to be any different. I mean I’ve known him for fifteen years, and he’s always been an ass. Why would he change now?” She looked at Robb sheepishly. “I just thought… I just thought that maybe he was better. Maybe the accident and all the time I’ve spent with him would have made him … I don’t know, not be such an ass.” She bit her lip in frustration. “But, surprise, surprise, Brienne Tarth is wrong again. Once more she has put her faith in someone who doesn’t deserve it. But then she’s always been a bit of a gullible idiot, not to mention, really, really slow on the uptake.”

“Hey,” Robb cried, refilling their glasses. “I like Brienne Tarth. Stop talking shit about her.”

Brienne laughed, taking a sip from her replenished glass. “You know what, Stark? You’re pretty wonderful.” She grinned at him fondly, watching his face heat up in a blush. “No, you are. You really are. It’s no wonder you’ve got all the girls eating out of your hand.”

Robb lifted up his glass in acknowledgement, but his smile was a little sad. “Not all the girls.”

Brienne wagged her eyebrows at him, leaning forward onto her elbows. “Well, I think our lovely Jeyne may have a little thing for you,” Brienne stage whispered.

“Why would you say that?” Robb whispered back.

Brienne looked affronted. “Are you kidding me? Have you seen the way she looks at you, Stark? And she’s always finding excuses to stand next to you or to hang around you. Have you not heard the way she is constantly complimenting you?”

“Ah,” Robb said, his tone sardonic. “You’ve noticed all that, have you?”

“Of course. It’s as plain as day.”

“Plain as day, is it?” Robb shook his head, letting out a sarcastic laugh and taking a large swig from his glass.

“What? Pay attention the next time you are around her,” Brienne insisted indignantly. “You’ll see.”

“Pay attention?” Robb gaped. “Really, Brienne? Pay attention?”

Brienne ran her finger around her bowl, collecting the last of the hot fudge and popping it in her mouth. “I know that your generation thinks they know everything. But listen to your elders, Robb,” she said primly. “We know of which we speak. We’ve had more life experience.”

Robb shook his head. “You know, I think I’m starting to reevaluate that statement you made earlier about being slow on the uptake.”

Brienne laughed and drained the last of her drink.

This is just what she needed. A night that didn’t feel heavy. A conversation that wasn’t loaded with landmines and booby traps. A night where she could just forget about Jaime Lannister and the past and all of the hard feelings and the drama and the worry.

Suddenly, she clapped her hands together, startling Robb. “Let’s have a movie night! We can eat all the things and stay up too late and regret our life choices come morning.”

Robb looked at her questioningly.

“Please. I’ll let you choose what we watch.” She pushed away her bowl. “Anything you want. Even that weird, animated series you and Jon go on and on about.”

Robb laughed, pulling off his beanie, his red hair disheveled and wild. “I think you meant to say ‘brilliant animated series.’”

“Whatever,” she replied, giving him a smile of her own. “Please, Robby Stark. I could really do with the company tonight.” She batted her eyelashes at him exaggeratedly. “Say yes, and I promise, I’ll love you forever.”

Robb smiled a soft smile in return. “Well, how could I say no to that, Brienne Tarth?”

**~~~~~~**

**One Week Later:**

“I’m so sorry,” Tyrion excused, shepherding Varys into the sitting room, thanking all seven gods that the cleaning people had come yesterday and that the place looked fairly decent. “Jaime’s had a few setbacks lately. I’ve let him know that you're here. He’s … uh, just getting up, actually.”

Varys frowned, unwrapping his long scarf and taking off his overcoat. He folded it neatly and laid it across the arm of the couch, brushing out the wrinkles. “Hmm…” he hummed worriedly.

_Maybe this meeting had been a mistake. Maybe he was rushing things._

Honestly, these last few months had been a bit of a tight-rope walk for Varys, as he teetered in-between concern for his client’s health and concern for his client’s career.

The truth of the matter was that the industry was fickle in the best of times. One couldn’t just disappear and expect to be welcomed back with open arms.

However, in the dark days after Jaime had been released from the hospital, Varys knew he had to be very careful not to pressure Jaime -- to give him time to heal and process and grieve. So Varys had bit his tongue and bided his time, until a month ago, out of the blue, Jaime had called him and told him that it was time to start thinking about his career again -- time to figure out how he was going to navigate this new chapter of it.

Varys had been surprised, to say the least. However, when he had called Tyrion to check that Jaime was truly being serious and not just in the midst of some bizarre side effect of his pain medication, Tyrion had explained that Jaime had forged a friendship with Brienne Tarth from _Westerosi_ \-- a very serious friendship. And apparently she had talked Jaime into seeing a therapist who was making all kinds of difference in Jaime’s recovery.

If Varys had been somewhat taken aback by the news that Jaime was suddenly “very good friends” with a girl that he spent the early part of his career abjectly hating or the fact that his very anti-therapy client was now going to weekly therapy appointments, it wasn’t enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was just happy to have Jaime back in the land of the living -- and once more concerned about making a living.

However, that assessment may have been premature, judging by the fact that his last six phone calls to Jaime had gone unanswered and the fact that Varys was here at two o’clock sharp, and Jaime was still in bed.

“He’s doing much better physically,” Tyrion tried to explain. “He’s just had some emotional hurdles lately that have thrown him for a loop.”

“Yes, I understand completely,” Varys clucked sympathetically. “Poor, dear man.” He sighed. “Honestly, I wish I had better news to deliver today.”

“Oh shit. What now?” Tyrion said flatly.

“Well, it’s just that I’ve heard from the people at The Kingsguard, and …”

Varys startled at the sound of a slamming door.

“What did they say?” Jaime came staggering in, his hair a bird’s nest and his face criss-crossed with pillow marks.

Varys rose to his feet. “Jaime!” he cried, going over to kiss Jaime’s cheek, ignoring Jaime’s dour look and somewhat musty smell. “I’m glad to see you looking so … er, rested.”

“Cut the crap, Varys,” Jaime growled, hobbling to an empty armchair and throwing himself down. “What’s the news from The Kingsguard?”

“Yes." Varys frowned, taking a seat again. "Right. Well, Jaime. I don’t know how to say this kindly, so I will just come out with it. The Kingsguard has decided to discontinue our contract with them. They no longer want you as the face of their menswear. Apparently there was a clause in your contract which allowed them to terminate it, in the event that something happened to your appearance.”

Jaime’s expression froze.

He sat quietly for a few moments before speaking. “Nothing’s happened to my face.” As if to emphasize that, Jaime scrubbed his face with his hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“They just don’t think you promote the right image anymore,” Varys said carefully.

“The right image? Do they think I need two hands to wear their fucking clothes? They don’t even sell a line of gloves, so I still have all the requisite parts -- arms, legs, torso.”

Varys shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Jaime. It’s just the way it is. You know the nature of this business.”

“Can we fight it? Claim discrimination or something? Nothing about me has changed, aside from the hand. Hells, the hand doesn’t even need to be in any of the photographs.”

“I know that, Jaime,” Varys said softly. “But they’ve chosen to go with someone else. Apparently they think that it will make people uncomfortable seeing an amputee. It’s not the look they want associated with their brand.”

“Make people uncomfortable? I would make people uncomfortable?” The sick feeling that had been living in his stomach ever since the fight with Brienne splashed up into his chest and throat; and Jaime felt his breath starting to quicken.

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” Varys said. “But you know as well as I do how backwards this entire business is. It’s a business that sells perfection as a commodity; and people consume it, even though it makes them feel lacking and deficient. And woe to all of us who aren’t perfect.” Varys waved his hand between the three of them. “The whole thing just makes my stomach turn.”

Jaime closed his eyes.

_It’s not like he had really thought he’d be able to keep his modeling contracts. Of course they didn’t want him. Who in their right mind would want him? However, it still leveled a blow -- still punched him painfully in the gut -- the rejection almost palpable in its force._

“I could use a drink,” Tyrion said brusquely, going over to the bar. “Who wants to join me?”

Varys looked to the clock and frowned away the offer, but Jaime nodded dumbly.

_If he sat very still, maybe he could shut it all out. Shut out the fact that he seemed to be losing everything in his life, bit by bit. His hand, his looks, his career, Brienne ..._

“All right,” Varys said, trying to inject his tone with joviality. “So we’ve lost the contract with the KG. Their loss. No use crying over spilt milk. Instead, we should start planning your comeback.”

Jaime took the whiskey from Tyrion and gratefully gulped it. It didn’t do anything for the nausea, but it quelled a little of the tightness in his chest.

“What comeback?”

As far as he could see, there was no coming back from this. For once in his life, Jaime was glad for his family money. It would be very easy to retire and become one of those eccentric recluses whose only claim to fame was that they showed up from time to time as a tricky answer on a quiz show.

“Well, don’t get me wrong, Jaime dear, your health and recovery are still the most important things here. However, I think, if you’re up to it, it may be time to start reintegrating you into the public life.”

Jaime grunted, taking another gulp of alcohol. “No way.”

“Nothing big,” Varys placated. “You don’t have to do an interview or anything. Just get a few pictures of you out there so that people know that you are still here, still looking…” Varys perused Jaime’s rumpled appearance “er … like you do.”

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” Tyrion queried.

“Well,” Varys turned and smiled at Jaime. “What about showing up at an opening or two? Film, restaurant, hospital wing -- you choose. It doesn’t really matter.”

“I’d rather go under the knife again,” Jaime snarked.

The whiskey was doing its job; and Jaime felt the beginning of a calmness settle against his chest.

“All right,” Varys soothed. “Well, Tyrion tells me you’re getting more mobile. Do you feel up to going somewhere? A vacation possibly? A retreat? You could stay in a hotel room most of the time. We’ll just make sure there’s a photo op or two.”

“A vacation right now just may be putting the cart before the horse, Varys,” Tyrion cautioned. “Jaime’s still in physical therapy for his leg and still getting used to his prosthesis. And then there’s all of his work with Dr. Elder.”

“It could be a short trip. A weekend?” Varys raised his eyebrows. “What about a quick trip out to Dorne to see Cersei? Let the paps take a few shots of the two of you together. The brave, handsome survivor and the gorgeous, loyal woman standing by her man.”

Tyrion gave a strangled grunt. “Excuse me. I’m suddenly feeling quite nauseous.”

Jaime shot him a withering look.

“I’m just throwing out ideas,” Varys said primly. “All we want is for you to be seen. Just a few pictures circulating so that people know that you are still here, Jaime. So they don’t forget. And if we can get these shots in ‘normal’ circumstances -- restaurants, movies, vacations -- that will just remind people that nothing’s really changed, that you’re still the same handsome, charming devil that you’ve always been.”

Jaime nodded, mulling the idea over in his mind. It actually didn’t sound all that horrible. He didn’t relish the idea of traveling or of being out in public. However, he had been missing Cersei lately -- the one good thing that he still had. And it might be nice to get away. Get his mind off of lost contracts and rejection and the total cock-up of the situation he’d made with Brienne. Get his mind off Brienne, full stop. Cersei was always a good distraction when he felt like a complete and total fuck-up.

He took another sip of whiskey for some liquid courage. “Cersei’s been after me to come and see her in Dorne,” Jaime said, being careful not to look at Tyrion. “Maybe we could arrange a weekend?”

Varys clapped his hands together in glee. “Wonderful! Wonderful! That is exactly the thing I was hoping.” He smiled at Jaime benevolently. “It will probably do you good to get out in the sunshine a bit, pet. See new sites, meet new people. Who knows, you may come back a completely changed man.”

Tyrion laughed wryly and got up to refill his glass.

“Oh, a weekend with Cersei definitely changes people, Varys,” Tyrion said, ignoring the death glare Jaime was currently shooting him. “Although usually not for the better.”

**~~~~~~**

**Five Days Later:**

Jaime pulled the hat down over his eyes, grabbing his wheeled suitcase and carefully maneuvering it through the crowd.

He took a deep breath.

It was just the airport. He’d been here a hundred times. Nothing to panic about. Yet, he couldn’t for the life of him, get his heartbeat to slow and his breathing to regulate.

He glanced around furtively, to check to see if anyone had recognized him.

He was wearing his prosthesis today and a long-sleeved sweater and jacket. And he had left his crutch at home. His PT had said it was time to start giving that up anyway -- stop using it as … well, as a crutch in his recovery. The only real thing that could tip people off to his identity, besides Jaime’s face, was his limp, which was still pretty pronounced.

But so far so good.

He just needed to find his gate and then he could sit until it was time to check-in.

He was actually quite proud of himself for doing this -- for finally taking the bull by the horns. And, of course, he was excited to see Cersei. Very excited to see Cersei.

Cersei had been absolutely thrilled to hear that he was coming. She had already planned the whole weekend -- restaurants, clubs, parties.

In fact, Jaime had to remind her that he was still, for all intents and purposes, an invalid.

However, she had waved away his concern. “If the old Spider wants photo ops -- we’ll give him photo ops,” she had cried gleefully. “It will be fantastic publicity for my film too! Oh, darling! It’s so good to have you back to yourself again. I’ve missed you so.”

Jaime didn’t know if he was back. However, it was good to be missed -- to be wanted again -- especially when the rest of the world had made it very clear that he was not wanted at all.

Being careful of his leg, Jaime slowly made his way to his gate, checking the boarding times once more, before finding the VIP lounge.

Never a comfortable flyer at the best of times, Jaime found that his anxiety could often be tempered with a stiff G&T from the airport bar. Thus, he made his way to the lounge, settling himself on an empty stool.

He had the brief thought that Brienne would be proud of him for sitting at a public bar and ordering a drink; but he pushed it away before he could go down that particularly bleak rabbit hole.

The bar wasn’t crowded. A few patrons sat at some of the tables. A harried looking businessman was in a heated phone conversation -- three empty glasses in front of him, a fourth glass, half-full, balanced precariously on the edge of the table. Five seats down from Jaime, a woman was reading a novel and drinking from a glass of dark alcohol, occasionally looking up at the TV behind the bar that was set to some entertainment news show, its volume muted.

No one paid Jaime any mind, as he settled himself in and caught the bartender’s attention.

Jaime ordered a gin and tonic, pulling out his phone to call Cersei and let her know that his flight was scheduled to leave on time.

No sooner had he pressed call, than Cersei picked up.

“Darling!”

“Hey, Cerse,” Jaime smiled into the phone. “I just got to the airport. It looks like everything's good to go. I should be getting in at 7:45 as planned.”

“Gods, I’m so excited,” Cersei said breathlessly. “I’ve got us dinner reservations at Starfall at 9:00. Their stuffed peppers are to die for.”

Jaime laughed, taking a sip of his drink. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to come back from this vacation much heavier than I left for it?”

“You could use a few more pounds on you, my love,” Cersei teased. “But, if you’re really worried about it, I know some fun ways to burn calories too.”

Jaime felt his face heat at the suggestion.

_Shit, was he really ready for this?_

He coughed and climbed to safer ground. “Will I get to visit your set?”

“Of course!” Cersei said. “I will take you all around. Introduce you to everyone. They all think they already know you, I talk about you so much.”

Cersei started going through the list of cast and crew, explaining who was who; and Jaime found his mind starting to wander at her excited prattle. He sipped his drink, looking down the bar at the woman who was reading. He then glanced up at the television.

Suddenly, Brienne’s face flashed across the screen, followed by a shot of a reporter talking.

Jaime frowned.

_What the hells?_

Cersei was still going on and on about the places they would be visiting and the people he would be meeting; but Jaime had tuned her out completely, watching intently as the reporter said something to his colleague, and the picture shifted to a shot of a hospital front.

_Oh, Shit._

“Cerse, I’m going to have to call you back,” Jaime said, cutting her off midstream. He didn’t even give her time to react, before ending the call.

Not taking his eyes off of the television screen, Jaime tapped on the bar, gesturing to the bartender. “Could you turn up the volume for a sec?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

The bartender gave him a strange look but complied.

However, the story was apparently already over, and the reporters had moved on to a story about Loras Tyrell’s latest movie.

“Could you turn it to a news station?” Jaime asked impatiently, pulling out a few dragons and tossing them on the bar. He was probably being paranoid, but he could feel a strange heaviness settle over his limbs.

_What the fuck was going on? Why was Brienne’s face on the entertainment news?_

The bartender nodded and changed the station; and Jaime watched, as the two news anchors discussed a new tax bill that was set to take effect next month.

Jaime took another sip of his drink, distractedly watching the debate.

_Maybe they had just been doing a story on Brienne’s show? It was pretty popular these days._

_Hells, he was probably blowing the whole thing completely out of proportion. He was just anxious about the flight and the weekend and seeing Cersei again. And all the anxiety was making him think the worst._

_Jesus, he was losing his mind! Maybe he should have taken Dr. Elder up on the offer of that Xanax prescription, after all._

_Although, maybe he should just do a quick internet search for Brienne’s name, just to be on the safe side -- make sure that everything was fine._

Before he could do anything, Jaime’s phone dinged.

**Cersei: WTF, Jaime?! 😑**

_Shit. He should call her back._

However, first he’d have another drink, see what he could find out on his phone, and try to shake this strange sense of dread before he had to get on a plane.

Jaime had just called the bartender over to order another drink, when he saw it on the news-crawl at the bottom of the television screen:

**_'Knights of the Seven Kingdoms' actress Brienne Tarth seriously injured in on-set accident. Tarth and stunt actor, Andrew Estermont, injured when portion of set broke loose, crushing them. Estermont sustained minor injuries. Tarth rushed to hospital. Listed in critical condition._ **

**~~~~~~**

Jaime flew North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it’s three -- three -- three chapters in one! But then that’s what happens when you organize your story around the songs that you’ve picked. You can’t just mess up the playlist because of chapter length -- any good DJ will tell you that. 🤣 On that note, check out this chapter’s song, if you are so inclined. It’s fantastic! 
> 
> And speaking of fantastic things, I was so incredibly overcome by the reaction to the last chapter. Your comments and insights and emotional responses moved me more than I can even begin to convey here. I don’t think I’ve ever been in fandom where the discourse has been at such an elevated and thoughtful level. 
> 
> Just know that everything that you may have felt reading that chapter -- anger, frustration, despair, discomfort, unease -- is everything I felt writing it. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and reactions and personal stories with me. 
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that it took me longer to respond to comments last week. This was because I wanted to give my responses the same thought and care that you gave your comments. And, going forward, just know that, if it takes me longer to respond, this is the reason why. 
> 
> Honestly, I can’t thank you enough for the support that you’ve shown this strange and complicated tale. It is truly overwhelming. 💖


	14. Can You Get to That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tries to “get to that.” Robb tries to block him. Brienne’s head hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s about to get tropey all up in here. Just roll with it, gang.
> 
> Also, check this chapter's lyrics. 😉

**“Can You Get to That”**

**Funkadelic**

**“I once had a life, or rather Life had me.**   
**I was one among many**   
**Or at least I seemed to be.**   
**Well, I read an old quotation in a book just yesterday.**   
**Said ‘Gonna reap just what you sow,**   
**The debts you make you have to pay.**   
**Can you get to that?”**

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Jaime exhaled, closing his eyes and leaning back against the cool, plaster wall of the hospital lobby. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest, his face hot and tight, as he reached a hand up to touch his forehead, which was already slick with sweat.

He felt about two seconds away from a total breakdown.

But he had done it.

When his hired car had first pulled up to the hospital entrance, and he had seen the line of photographers circling ominously outside of the glass doors like carrion birds, Jaime had almost lost his nerve. He desperately didn’t want to deal with the press. Not now. Not here. Not ever, if he were being completely honest.

He almost told the driver not to stop.

Almost.

He could just come back later, he tried to rationalize. Go find a hotel and regroup and come back to the hospital later tonight when the photogs were sure to have tired of the scent of a fresh kill and dispersed.

But Brienne was in there. And Brienne was hurt. And Jaime had no idea how badly she was hurt because no one at the fucking hospital would give him an update on her condition -- no matter how much he begged and pleaded and ... well, screamed.

No -- drastic times called for drastic measures. And, despite the fact that he had spent the last months literally hiding out in his apartment, Jaime was apparently a pro at taking drastic measures, when the situation called for them.

Case and point: it had been a spur of the moment decision to fly here -- although, decision was not exactly the right word.

Jaime had seen the news; and then, before he could fully process any of it, he was on a flight to Winterfell. And then, before he could come to terms with that, he was in the parking lot of the hospital, facing down the mob of reporters.

And then there was nothing else he could do but run the horrifying gauntlet in order to get to Brienne.

And so he had -- hobbled through their shouted questions, their blinding flashes, their rude, insulting statements.

_“Jaime, why are you here? Don’t you and Brienne hate each other?”_

_“Jaime, is there something going on between you and Brienne? Have you and Cersei broken-up?”_

_“Does Cersei know you’re here? Are you cheating on her?”_

_“Jaime, show us the hand! How much of the arm did they take?”_

_“Will you walk normally again? Have you given up acting completely?”_

_“Jaime -- the kid who died in the crash was a military hero. Do you feel any guilt about the whole thing? Have you reached out to his family?”_

Jaime tried to put his head down and tune them all out; but every question, ever request for him to show his injury, to share his guilt and pain, hit him like an arrow, until his body felt riddled with holes.

But he had done it. Somehow he had stayed upright and stone faced, until he was able to stumble through the glass doors and into the hospital lobby.

An older couple in the waiting area looked over at him curiously; and Jaime pushed himself up off of the wall, before he could make himself even more of a spectacle.

He looked towards the reception desk, bracing himself for the next part of the ordeal.

All he had to do was walk over there and ask.

But his body just wanted to turn and run.

It was the smell.

The fucking smell that made him want to jump out of his skin -- that sharp, antiseptic odor that smelled like fear and pain and despair. It had taken Jaime weeks to rid himself of that cloying scent when he had finally been released from the hospital. Weeks and weeks. And suddenly, he was back there again, as flashes of those dark days assailed his brain -- Qyburn, seeing himself for the first time, pissing into a tube, waking up without a hand.

_Fuck._

The reception desk suddenly seemed miles away, although it was only on the other side of the room.

Hugging the wall, Jaime swallowed and, instead, made his way to the restroom to try to compose himself.

He was going to have to pull out all of the charm and influence he had left in his arsenal in order to talk his way into seeing Brienne. He had to calm down. He couldn’t look like he was in the middle of having a stroke.

Luckily, the restroom was blessedly empty.

Looking into the mirror, Jaime splashed cold water on his face with his left hand. He frowned at his reflection, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his flattened hair, trying to make himself presentable.

He needed to be Jaime Lannister for this; and he hadn’t been Jaime Lannister in a very long time. He didn’t know if he even remembered how to be.

After a few moments staring into the mirror and psyching himself up, Jaime took a steadying breath and left the bathroom, trying to make his limp less conspicuous, as he made his way to the information desk.

“Can I help you?” The woman at the desk gave him an appraising look, recognition suddenly lighting her features. She looked old enough to have been in the fan demographic of _Westerosi._ Maybe he could catch a break here.

“You’re Jaime Lannister,” the woman breathed, her eyes opening wide in surprise.

Jaime smiled the most charming smile he could muster, letting his voice fall to his lower register. “I am. I was wondering if you could help me,” he looked at the woman’s name tag, “Hanna. My good friend Brienne Tarth is here in the hospital, and I’ve flown all the way from King’s Landing just to see her -- only I don’t know where to find her or whether or not she can have visitors.”

“Oh … yes. Of... of course, Mr. Lannister.” She gave him a bright smile, unconsciously patting down her hair. “I’m a huge fan of yours. Ever since your days on _Westerosi._ Roman was my favorite. And I was so scared when you had your accident. And now poor Ms. Tarth too. Gods, I was a wreck when I heard about her.” She lowered her voice whispering, “It sounded bad.”

“Is she OK?” Jaime asked, suddenly losing his easy charm, his voice hoarse with concern. “Do you know something? How she is? No one would tell me anything on the phone.”

The woman frowned. “I don’t actually know. I’m afraid I don’t have access to that information.” She gazed at him. “This is so surreal. You know, I didn’t think you and Ms. Tarth got along in real life. There were all kinds of stories about you two back when I was a kid.”

“Yes, well you know you can’t believe everything that you read,” Jaime tried to excuse. He leaned onto the counter of the reception desk, smiling. “Would you know where they are keeping her? I’d like to see her, if I may or, at least, talk to her doctor.”

The woman keyed something into her computer. “She’s in the ICU, sixth floor, Room 632. I don’t know if they will let you see her, seeing as you’re not family; but they may have more information on her condition, at least.”

Jaime let out a breath. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Hanna. I appreciate it.”

The woman smiled. “Of course, Mr. Lannister. Honestly, I’m happy to know that the two of you are friends. Fifteen year old me would have been thrilled.”

Jaime smiled at that. “Yes, that’s … well, um thank you, again.”

“I hope she’s OK.”

“Me too.”

Jaime turned to find the nearest elevator, his flirty smile crumbling into an expression of worry.

Once in the elevator, he pushed the button for the sixth floor and tried to take deep breaths. He could do this. 

When the elevator doors opened, Jaime stepped out into the eerie quiet of the Intensive Care Unit. And, as he looked around at the empty hallway and the glass partition, he felt the panic rise in his gut.

There was a small waiting area: barren, cold, and impersonal.

Had his family waited in a place like this, when he had first been brought into the hospital after the accident? Had they sat in stiff chairs like these, stared at blank, white walls like these, waiting to see if he would live or die?

Shuddering, Jaime made his way over to the glass wall separating the unit from the rest of the floor.

A black phone hung from the wall by the door.

_All right -- showtime. Time to do what he was good at._

Jaime picked up the phone and pressed 0.

Amazingly, it didn’t take much to convince the critical care nurse on duty to come out and talk to him. Didn’t take much to convince her that Brienne was a close friend of his -- almost like family. And after a little pleading and a little more flirting, the nurse had eventually agreed to go find Brienne’s doctor.

Surprisingly, the doctor had been the easiest to convince, telling the nurse that Brienne was out of danger and steadily improving, and that Brienne’s father had already OKed visits from her co-workers.

And Jaime had smiled and thanked the doctor profusely and hadn’t corrected her.

And all too soon and somehow not soon enough, Jaime found himself being shepherded down a long, white hall to room 632.

He pushed the door open and entered the dimly lit room.

Brienne was alone.

The nurse on duty had informed Jaime that Brienne’s father had left to get a few hours of sleep, upon learning that Brienne was out of the woods and in stable condition. Jaime was relieved -- not only at the fact that Brienne was out of the woods, but also at the fact that he wouldn’t have to explain himself to Brienne’s father. After Brienne's experience on _Westerosi_ , he’d bet good money that Dr. Tarth wasn’t exactly a Jaime Lannister fan.

The room was quiet, except for the steady beep of Brienne’s heart monitor which was wreaking havoc on Jaime’s nervous system. However, he had come this far. Blowing out a breath, Jaime flexed his left hand against his thigh and stepped further into the room.

Brienne lay on the bed, her pale skin blending in with the hospital linens.

She looked incongruously delicate, lying there -- like a fine piece of broken china. Her already short hair had been shaved on one side; and Jaime could see the metal staples and a line of dark, dried blood on her scalp. Her face was bruised and scraped, a large bandage covering one cheek, the corner of her mouth swollen and bluish red. Her eyes were closed, her breathing soft and regular.

Jaime swallowed, coming closer to her bedside. He reached a tentative hand out, but then drew it back.

“Gods, Tarth,” he whispered instead, surprised to hear a desperate thickness cloaking his words. “You stupid, reckless, pig-headed, woman. What did I tell you about the fucking stunts? Jesus, you never listen, do you?” He huffed out a stuttering laugh. “No, you’re just so goddamn stubborn. And you could have been killed. You could have very well been killed and then …” he trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.

Brienne didn’t stir, just breathed softly in and out.

Jaime shuffled nearer to her bedside. “I bet you’re surprised to see me, huh?” Jaime tried again, keeping his voice low. “I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, after everything.” The guilt was making his tone almost angry, so he worked to soften it. “But they wouldn’t tell me how you were. And I thought…” he broke off. “Well, I thought the worst.”

Watching her face, Jaime reached out a finger to run it over the back of Brienne’s hand, being careful to avoid the IV port.

“I thought …,” he choked on a bitter laugh. “I thought, you know, it would serve me right, if … well, if the last thing I said to you -- the last interaction I had with you was so horrible and selfish and awful. It would fucking serve me right...” He shook his head.

“But they tell me you are going to be OK. You’re going to be fine.”

Jaime fell silent for a few moments, just looking at her, before turning the conversation to a safer topic. “You know, Tarth. You’d be proud of me,” he said softly. “I flew out here, by myself. I actually went out in public, flew to Winterfell, faced the horde of photographers and media people, just so that I could make sure you were OK.”

He chuckled under his breath, his voice heavy with emotion. “Look at you getting me to do things I don’t want to do yet again. It’s your superpower, I guess.” Jaime reached over and gently squeezed the little finger of her right hand.

Suddenly, Brienne let out a soft grunt, turning her head and cracking open an eye. “As superpowers go, it’s actually not all that helpful,” she croaked, her voice hoarse and rusty as an old hinge. “I’d much rather have super strength or invisibility or something.”

Jaime let out a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You rat bastard!” he cried, his grin wide and trembling. “You’ve been faking sleep this whole time. Just letting me prattle on like a pathetic fool.” He reached his hand up to his face to surreptitiously brush away the wetness, before she could see.

Brienne blinked at him. “What are you doing here, Jaime?”

“Well, I couldn’t let you steal my shtick, could I?” he joked. “How dare you hone in on the pathetic, former teen-drama star who's been injured in a freak accident market. Typical of you, Tarth, just waiting for your chance to outshine me yet again. By the way, I like the hair and the staples. So much more fashionable than the whole losing a hand thing.”

She frowned, trying to sit up, but then grimaced, pain flitting across her face.

“No, no,” Jaime soothed, coming closer, tentatively laying his hand on her blanket clad form. “Best just to stay still right now. Doctor’s orders.”

Brienne gave a weak nod and closed her eyes.

Jaime cleared his throat. “No … uh, jokes aside, I needed to come,” he said quietly. “I needed to come and-- try to make things right.” He swallowed roughly. “Brienne. I don’t know … I mean, I just...”

Brienne grimaced, holding up a scraped and battered hand to cut him off. “Jaime … I can’t hear all this right now,” she said, pain lacing every word.

Jaime’s face fell. He had known when he got on that airplane that this could very well be the outcome. Dr. Elder had warned him in his last session, that, just because Jaime apologized, didn’t mean that Brienne would have to accept it.

_“You hurt her, Jaime. Forgiveness has to be on her terms. All you can do is say your piece and then respect hers.”_

But somehow, when Jaime played the whole groveling apology scenario in his head, it never ended like this -- with her not even letting him speak.

“Brienne,” he pleaded, hating his voice for its desperation. “I’ve come all this way. Please, just let me …”

“No, no,” Brienne said, her eyes scrunching up in frustration and discomfort. “I just really can’t do this right now. I’m heavily concussed. This whole conversation is making me nauseous.” Her face softened just a bit, her eyes trying to focus. “Well, more nauseous than our normal conversations make me, which is saying a lot.”

Jaime expelled a breath of relief, suddenly feeling very much like bursting into tears. “Oh, well then, maybe I should…” he turned and pointed towards the door.

“Christ, Jaime. Just stop shouting please,” Brienne groaned, a pale hand coming to her head, gliding over the line of staples.

He held up his hand in apology. “Right, right. Sorry, sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll just let you ...” He turned to go.

“You can sit,” Brienne muttered. “Just be quiet.”

“OK,” he nodded eagerly. He patted her leg awkwardly and then walked to a pair of chairs in the corner of the room. “I should just sit here?”

“Gods,” Brienne moaned, putting a hand over her eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaime apologized again. “I’ll sit here, then.”

Brienne withdrew her hand, closing her eyes and sighing in exasperation.

Stretching out on the uncomfortably hard, hospital chair, Jaime shifted back, leaning his head against the wall, letting it fall to the side so he could see Brienne.

She grumbled and moved in restless irritation, but surprisingly soon, the pain meds must have kicked in, for her breathing regulated to the steady in and out of sleep.

From his vantage point in the corner, Jaime watched her -- watched her chest rise and fall, her pale eyelashes flutter, her swollen mouth move infinitesimally with every inhalation and exhalation.

And only then did Jaime feel like he could breathe again.

**~~~~~~**

Jaime spent the better part of the next two days nervously buzzing between Brienne’s bedside, the hospital lobby, and his hotel room.

After his first pass through the press, their invasive questions didn’t bother him as much. He just tuned them out, eyes set forward, his expression neutral. And he certainly wasn’t going to look up the stories they were writing about him. He wasn’t that much of a masochist. Let people think what they wanted. Nothing Jaime said to refute them would even matter. He could insist until he was blue in the face that nothing was going on between him and Brienne, and they would still print their salacious stories. Sex sold papers -- which was ironic, considering that Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he had had sex.

No, it wasn’t the bad publicity or being out in public that was causing Jaime’s anxiety, it was Brienne.

Oh she was getting better. In fact, after Jaime’s first day there, Brienne had been moved from the ICU to the regular in-patient wing. The doctors were surprised at her resilience -- that she had made such a quick turn around after such a massive blow to her head. Jaime had made a quip about her stubborn hardheadedness, and Brienne’s frown had been especially dour.

The second day after her move out of critical care, Brienne’s father, the imposing Dr. Selwyn Tarth, had deemed it safe enough for him to fly back to the university in order to continue his lecture series. He had perseverated about leaving, side-eying Jaime suspiciously and asking Brienne numerous times if she wouldn’t rather have him cancel his classes and stay for a while.

However, Brienne had insisted that she was fine -- on the mend. And Jaime had assured Dr. Tarth that he had everything well in hand -- holding up his stump and smiling charmingly. Dr. Tarth had only frowned sternly at Jaime’s weak attempt at a joke; and Brienne had shot daggers at Jaime from across the room.

But she was right. Although she was still suffering the very serious effects of her head injury, every day, Brienne was seeming more and more like herself -- a dopey, short-tempered, especially dour version of herself -- but herself, just the same.

Still, Jaime was waiting for the inevitable "other shoe" to drop. For Brienne to wake up from her drug-induced, begrudging tolerance of him and order him to leave and to not come back.

Thus far they hadn’t discussed the fight. Had tiptoed around it as if it were a giant, sleeping dragon -- neither one of them even acknowledging that the fight had, in fact, happened. It was almost as if they had called a short-term cease fire to address Brienne’s injuries -- with the full intention of picking up arms again at a later date.

However, cease fire or not, that didn’t prevent Jaime from experiencing Brienne’s ire. No, no three days into her hospital stay, Brienne had seriously laid into him -- ripped him a new one, in fact -- almost sent him packing -- just because Jaime had confronted the head producer on her show about safety regulations -- and, OK, he might also have threatened him with legal action, throwing out the names of a couple of Lannister lawyers that his father kept on retainer.

Brienne was livid.

However, Jaime wasn’t sorry. There was no excuse for the bloody accident. It was just stupid luck that the piece of the wall that had fallen had veered slightly left on its descent, and Brienne had been hit on the side of her head and face and not directly head-on. Jaime didn’t even want to imagine what the outcome would have been in that case. The very thought of it kept him up at night.

But the real thing that was keeping Jaime up at night was the anxiety and guilt he felt about how he had left things with Brienne all those weeks ago -- for, although she hadn’t kicked him out yet, she also didn’t seem particularly happy to have him there.

What she did seem particularly happy about were the visits of Robb Stark, the young pup who played Brienne’s googly-eyed love interest on her space knights show.

Robb was a frequent visitor to Brienne’s bedside -- rather a too frequent visitor, if you asked Jaime, which nobody, in fact, did. And Stark always seemed to show up at the most inopportune times, with a chocolate bar or a smoothie or a carton of his mother’s homemade stew for Brienne and a surly glare and muttered insult for Jaime.

Annoyingly, Brienne seemed to be in a much better mood, every time Stark visited. Not that Jaime ever benefited from her good mood. No, when Robb visited, Brienne would invariably shoo Jaime away on some ridiculous errand to the cafeteria or to the gift shop or one time to the parking lot under the pretense of checking to see if Stark had mistakenly parked in a loading zone.

They seemed to have an easy friendship, Brienne and Stark. Nothing like the complicated relationship that Jaime had with her. But then, Jaime reminded himself grimly as he checked to make sure Stark’s ridiculous hybrid car wasn’t parked in a tow-away zone, Stark didn’t insult Brienne or make her feel bad or unwanted. No, Stark seemed to make it a point not to be an asshole to Brienne.

Although the boy was sure as all hells an asshole to Jaime.

Jaime didn’t quite know what to make of it and was actually trying to piece out what exactly Brienne’s relationship to Stark was, when he ran into said boy, coming out of Brienne’s room after yet another visit. Jaime, of course, had been sent to the cafeteria by Brienne, who suddenly wanted a chocolate milk -- although Jaime knew that she just wanted him out of the room.

It had pissed Jaime off to no end; but he knew he was on very thin ice with Brienne, so chocolate milk it was.

Jaime was all prepared to nod stiffly at the boy as per their normal interactions; however, Robb came to a stop in front of him, his face steely.

“What are you doing here, Lannister?”

Robb’s accent was broad and rhotic. According to Brienne, women found it charming. Jaime found it irritating beyond belief.

Jaime held up the carton of milk. “Brienne wanted chocolate milk.”

“No, really. Why are you here?” Robb insisted. His face was set into a fierce expression. And if the boy had been a bit older and a bit taller, Jaime may have been slightly intimated. Slightly.

“Same reason you are, I suppose,” Jaime said, instantly falling into the lazy, entitled, asshole persona that he played so well.

Robb’s face tightened. “Which is what?”

Jaime bared his teeth in a smile. “To make sure Brienne’s OK. To help her through her recovery.”

“Oh, you care about her now, do you?”

Jaime cocked his head, raising his eyebrows wryly. “Of course, I care, Stark. What are you implying?”

“I just find it somewhat suspicious that you’ve treated her like shit for fifteen years and now, here you are, playing nursemaid and fetching her chocolate milk.” Robb stepped forward, his blue eyes narrowing.

“Think what you want, Stark. It’s none of your concern.” Jaime said lightly, turning to go, but Robb held out a hand to stop him.

“You know,” he growled, his accent more pronounced, “everyone knows you’re an asshole, Lannister. It’s fucking legend in this business. But you have to be a real evil bastard to be an asshole to her.”

Jaime’s smile tightened, his eyes flashing dangerously. He pulled back a little and bit his lip, appraising Robb. “Oh, Stark. Look at you.” He smirked slyly at Robb, cocking his head. “It almost seems like you have a little crush. How precious. Does Brienne know?”

Robb’s cheeks reddened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Jaime gave him an calculating look, and then tsked through his teeth. “Pity. I think you may be a little young for her. You’re certainly a little short for her.”

“Fuck off, Lannister!” Robb cried, taking a step forward. “I don’t know why you are here, but she doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need all of your drama -- doesn’t need to be constantly reminded of all the shit you put her through.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about, son,” Jaime’s voice was ice. He suddenly wished for his right hand back, as his left tightened around the carton of milk.

“I’m not your fucking son, Lannister. And I know enough about how you treated her -- the names you called her -- the shit you pulled-- all the times you made her cry in her dressing room.”

“She told you all this, did she?” Jaime’s own voice was low, quiet, careful.

“She told me enough,” Robb growled.

“I still don’t see how any of this is your business.”

“Because she’s my friend,” Robb gritted out. “Because I don’t want her hurt; and any fool with half a brain can see that you’re no good for her.”

“And you have half a brain, do you? You might be giving yourself too much credit there, son.”

“I’m not your fucking son!” Robb took a step back and shook his head in disbelief. “Shit, man, how much of an asshole do you have to be to mean to _her?_ To make _her_ feel bad?” He glared at Jaime, his distaste evident. “Christ, Lannister, even now. She went out to see you after your accident - even after everything you did to her, and what did you do? You fucking hurt her again. So, yeah, I think I know enough to say that you’re no good for her.”

Jaime opened his mouth, the guilt from the accusation washing over him. But Robb just glared at him disdainfully and then turned to head towards the elevator.

“You hurt her again, and I’ll fucking kill you, you pretentious bastard,” he threw back over his shoulder.

“Promises, promises, son,” Jaime said lightly. But inside his stomach, the guilt was as sour as curdled chocolate milk.

~~~~~~

“I don’t like him,” Jaime said, handing the carton of chocolate milk to Brienne.

Brienne frowned. “Who?”

“Stark.”

Brienne laughed and then winced at the movement. “Why?”

The bandage was no longer on her face, just a neat, zig-zagging line of stitches which matched the stapled line on her scalp.

When she had first been brought in, the hospital had called in a plastic surgeon to sew up Brienne’s face, and the doctor had done a magnificent job of it. He had assured Brienne later that every effort had been taken to make the scar as minimal as possible and that, after it healed, laser treatment was always an option.

However, Brienne had waved away his concern, claiming that she was fine. She was much more than just a pretty face, she had said, raising her eyebrows at Jaime in challenge.

He had flipped her off with his only remaining middle figure.

“He’s rather proprietary over you. I get the feeling he’s marking his territory. I’m surprised that he hasn’t just whipped it out and peed all around your bed.”

“Christ, Jaime,” Brienne said, reddening. “Could you not? I’m nauseous enough already.”

“You have to admit, Brienne, the kid is totally over-protective. I’m surprised you’re OK with it.”

“Oh, overprotective, is he?” Brienne retorted testily. “Did he also yell at the producers about negligence and threaten to sue if I didn’t fully recover?”

Jaime frowned. “That was different.”

Brienne sighed, raising a hand to run over the shaved half of her head.

With her shock of blond hair and beat-up face, she looked a bit like a punk rocker who had been trampled in a mosh pit.

“Jaime, you don’t like Robb because he doesn’t like you.”

“He thinks I have nefarious intentions. That I’m just here to hurt you again.”

“Well, he did have to pick up the pieces the last time you hurt me, so his worry is warranted.”

“Brienne,” Jaime began, coming towards her bedside. “If you’d just let …”

But Brienne held up a hand. “Stop,” she cautioned severely. “We both agreed to save this conversation until my brain is back to normal.”

Jaime’s stomach sank, and he felt the uncomfortable prickle of dread. However, he smiled a frustrated smile and sighed in resignation. “Yes, you keep saying that, Tarth,” he complained jokingly. “But, honestly how will we ever know?”

Jaime gave her a wicked grin, ducking when she threw the unopened carton of chocolate milk at his head.

**~~~~~~**

It was weird having Jaime here.

Part of it was the head injury and the drugs and the fact that it literally hurt to think. However, part of it was the fact that they had left things on such an awful note.

They had fought; and she had told him how traumatizing his actions had been. And then he had told her to leave and hadn’t called or texted or apologized.

But then -- he had dropped everything and rushed to her bedside the moment he found out that she was hurt.

The whole thing was bizarre, even without the painful muddle of a head injury to complicate everything. And Brienne didn’t quite trust herself to fully understand what was going on.

To his credit, Jaime seemed ready to apologize. She’d caught him staring at her many, many times, a painfully penitent look on his face. He had even tried to start the conversation more than once. However, she had waved him away and made him promise to keep it until she felt more like herself. She had to wait. If she had the conversation now -- hurting and scared and hopped up on drugs, she would be no match for him. No, there was no way she would be able to protect herself from Jaime, if she wasn’t functioning at full capacity.

Actually, Brienne had been tempted to ask Jaime to leave and to come back in a few weeks to talk. But he looked so miserable and so anxious, as if he were expecting her to throw him out at any moment, that she just didn’t have the heart. Besides, it was nice to have someone there, now that her dad had gone back to Tarth.

So instead of asking Jaime to leave and come back later, Brienne settled for watching him -- studying him for signs of his true motivation.

Was it the accident that had made the difference --- the thought that something horrible could have happened to her? Would Jaime have come to mend fences if she had escaped with only minor injuries? Was he truly sorry for everything that had happened, or was he just sorry that she had been hurt? Did he understand what he had done all those years ago, or was this just him trying to brush everything under the rug again like he had tried to do after his own accident?

Whatever it was, he was here -- with her -- in the hospital, hovering around her, fetching her things, keeping up a steady stream of babble, until her poor head couldn’t take it anymore, and she sent him away on some made-up errand.

He seemed sincere. He seemed like he wanted to be here -- with her. Seemed like he cared for her. But then, she had thought that before the fight, only to be proven wrong.

Brienne was just trying to think of something from the gift shop she could ask for, in order to get a few minutes respite from Jaime’s incessant chatter, when his phone rang.

He fumbled with it, frowning down at the screen.

Brienne nodded at him to go ahead and take it, grateful that he would have someone else to talk to for a minute or two.

“Cersei,” he said, answering the phone; and Brienne looked up curiously.

“Hold on. Let me just…” He nodded towards Brienne and headed out into the hall for privacy.

However, the nurse had chosen that moment to come in to check on Brienne, passing Jaime on her way and leaving the door open behind her.

As the nurse set about checking Brienne’s temperature and blood pressure and tidying up the side table, Brienne couldn’t help but hear Jaime’s part of the conversation.

From his tone and his frequent repetition of “I’m sorry,” it seemed clear that Cersei was not happy with Jaime’s decision to visit Brienne. Not happy at all.

“I already apologized a hundred times, Cersei,” she heard Jaime mutter sharply. “It was a major accident. She’s injured. What kind of person would I be if, after all of the help she’s given me, I was living it up in Dorne while she was in the hospital?”

And then, “It has nothing to do with you. It doesn’t. You have no idea what it’s like to recover from something like this. The fear, the confusion … “

“No, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. Fuck, Cersei! Can you think past yourself for one minute? I can reschedule the damn weekend.”

Jaime was quiet for a moment.

“I have no say over what the press writes, you know that.”

“It isn’t true!”

 _Shit. The press. Gods, the press!_ Brienne hadn’t even considered the optics of Jaime’s visit. No wonder Cersei was so upset. Maybe Jaime should leave before the speculation became too intense.

“Christ!” Jaime said angrily, his voice amplified. “Oh, well then should I be worried about those articles about you and Kettleblack? From those stories it sounds like the two of you are having quite a time together in Dorne. And he sure as hells doesn’t seem gay from the press’ description of his activities -- or should I say proclivities.”

There was a long pause. “Well, then you can’t believe what they write about me.”

“You’re not being fair, Cersei.”

Brienne leaned forward on the bed, a sick feeling in her stomach.

_Damn, she should send him away -- far away -- before they made it any worse._

“Are you all right, love?” the nurse asked, noticing Brienne’s sudden lack of color and coming over to check her stitches. The nurse pulled out a pen light, shining it into Brienne’s eyes; and Brienne lost the thread of Jaime’s conversation.

However, a few minutes after the nurse had finished her exam and left, Jaime returned, a strained smile on his face.

Brienne looked at him warily. “Everything OK?”

“Cersei sends her best,” he said lightly.

Brienne nodded and mumbled a half-assed thanks; and Jaime looked at her questioningly.

They studied each other in silence, until Jaime turned and absently started straightening the get well cards and bouquets on Brienne’s side table.

Brienne leaned back against her pillows.

_Shit._

The whole conversation had just added to her confusion.

On one hand there was Jaime Lannister who had tormented her for years; who, only weeks ago, didn’t think he had done anything worth apologizing for; who didn’t want to have anything to do with her; who was still together with a woman who had made Brienne’s life a living hell.

On the other, there was Jaime Lannister who had rushed to her bedside without thinking; who had defended her from Cersei; who had risked the press and stories linking the two of them together in order to be with her when she was hurt and scared and confused.

So which Jaime Lannister was the real one?

The whole damn thing made Brienne’s head hurt.

**~~~~~~**

One day later, Brienne received the news that she was going to be released. Well, she and Jaime both received the news.

She had tried to send Jaime out of the room, when the doctor had come in; but Jaime had insisted on staying. And the doctor had agreed that it would be good for another person besides Brienne to hear her instructions, just in case Brienne became incapacitated at some point after her release.

Brienne had grumbled but had begrudgingly let Jaime stay and hear all about concussion protocol.

Honestly, Jaime could probably write his own fucking pamphlet on concussion protocol, complete with pictures, after going through what he had gone through after his own accident. But he solemnly followed along with what the doctor said -- humming in agreement and nodding sagely, while Brienne rolled her eyes at him.

When the doctor left, Jaime turned to Brienne. “The doctor says that you shouldn’t be alone in these early days.” He crossed his arms officially, the shorter one under the longer. His prosthesis lay on the side counter of Brienne’s room, Jaime having removed it as soon as he was safe from the press’ prying cameras.

Brienne frowned. “I was here in the room Jaime. I know what she said.”

“But you live alone.”

“I live in a trailer on a set. Surrounded by people. I’ll be fine.”

“But you are still alone in that trailer.”

“Jaime. It’s fine,” Brienne muttered, wondering if she had supplies at her place or whether she could have groceries delivered.

Jaime hummed pensively, turning to stare out the window. “I think I should stay with you.”

“Gods no,” Brienne grunted, startled. She looked at him blinking.

“You need someone with you these first few days,” Jaime argued rationally. “You heard the doctor, Brienne. If our roles were reversed, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“But ...” Brienne’s eyes skittered around the hospital room, not looking at him. “But you don’t need to do it. I can ask my dad. He might be able to take a leave from the university for a few days. Or Robb could do it.”

“Nonsense,” Jaime protested, frowning at the mention of Stark. “There’s no need for your father to take time off and fly all the way back here. And Stark is working. I don’t have any commitments. It just makes sense for me to stay with you.”

“Jaime, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Brienne waved her hand around frantically, the panic making her movements slightly manic. “There’s Cersei and the press. Not to mention the fact that we’ve barely started speaking again.”

“Brienne, it’s fine,” Jaime argued. “The press is already writing shit. Nothing we do is going to stop that. Besides we’re going to need to have the bloody conversation eventually. This will give us plenty of opportunity.”

“Jaime ...I don’t think …”

“No, just hear me out,” Jaime said, holding up his good hand. “I don’t have any pressing commitments. Besides, I just went through concussion recovery. I know what to look for -- I understand everything that you’re feeling. I understand the protocol. I can stay with you for a few days. Help you get back on your feet. It is no sacrifice on my end. And I can just get a bigger hotel room -- a suite, if there’s one available. That way you have your own room. The hotel I’m staying at isn’t five star or anything, but it’s nice enough.”

“Jaime, no,” Brienne said, her face flushing. “I won’t let you do that.”

“Concussions are nothing to play around with, Brienne. Believe me. My head took a beating in the car accident. I had to be constantly monitored and observed in the early days. Just ask Tyrion.”

“Jaime, I’m sure I’ll be fine without constant supervision. I live on a set. I can have people check in with me from time to time. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Jaime insisted firmly. “The doctor says you’re fine to be released, as long as you have someone with you at all times. So let me stay with you. If you are too pig-headed to let me get you a room, I’ll sleep on the couch of your trailer.”

“My trailer’s tiny. It barely fits me!” She insisted, suddenly bombarded with the image of the two of them trying to use her closet of a bathroom.

“Which is why I suggested the hotel.” Jaime sighed. He shook his head in exasperation.“Christ, I know you sustained a head injury, Brienne, but usually you are the smart one.”

Brienne glared at him. “You’re not paying to put me up in a hotel,” she argued testily. “That’s too much.”

“Brienne, I can well afford it.”

“No,” she sputtered. “I wouldn’t …” She trailed off, biting her lip. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable with it. The press and everything and Cersei … I just …It would look bad ...”

“Then trailer it is,” Jaime said decisively. “We can make it work.”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“Brienne, you’re still impaired. You have headaches, balance issues, blurred vision.”

“My vision is fine,” she harrumphed grumpily, rubbing at her eyes and wincing when her fingers hit her stitches.

“All right, then. Quick.” Jaime raised his stump in the air. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Brienne groused, but somehow his joke alleviated a bit of the stress of his suggestion. The corners of her mouth raised, despite her concern.

Jaime saw the opening and limped over to take a seat on her bed. “Please, Brienne. I know that things are … well, how they are between us. But this is your health we are talking about. Let me stay. Just for a few days. I know I’m not the best candidate as nursemaids go, but what I lack in skill, I make up for in sheer, unbridled ego and delusions of grandeur.”

She huffed out a laugh at that.

“You’ve been so good at taking care of me these past months, Brienne. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Please let me take care of you -- just a little.”

Brienne groaned and closed her eyes. “Fine.”

“Really?” Jaime couldn’t actually believe that he had won so easily. He had been ready to whip up collective support amongst her doctors and nurses if necessary.

Brienne closed her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t have the energy to argue. And I guess it would be good to have someone watching out for me in the early days.”

However, at his pleased murmur, Brienne’s eyes flew open, and she glared at him. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t. I won’t,” Jaime assured her. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“You _have_ best behavior?” Brienne questioned dryly. “And here I was thinking that was just an urban legend told to all of your co-stars so they didn’t immediately quit and run.”

She grunted and sat back against her pillows, her face set in a grim, displeased expression.

However, Jaime couldn’t help but notice the hint of relief that played in the corner of her bruised mouth.

**~~~~~~~**

Three hours and a million signed release forms later, a nurse wheeled Brienne to a more secluded side entrance of the hospital, where Jaime’s hired car was waiting.

Jaime had made sure to get an extra large vehicle so that Brienne would have plenty of room to stretch out on the short ride to the set.

Brienne had taken one look at the massive, gas-guzzling, black vehicle and frowned severely. However, before she could register a complaint, the nurse brought the chair to an abrupt stop.

“All right, Ms. Tarth,” the nurse said, fastening the break on the chair and putting a hand on Brienne’s arm to help her up. “Up we go.”

“Thank you,” Brienne replied, swaying a bit, as Jaime hurriedly came around her other side to steady her. He pressed his body into her left side, anchoring her with his arm, his prosthesis sitting solidly on her hip.

Brienne blinked in the sunlight, her head throbbing. She put her hand up to her temple, her fingers playing over the short stubble and stiff line of staples.

She could feel this morning’s breakfast sloshing in her stomach, and she took a deep breath to try to steady herself. It would be bad form to vomit on the hospital sidewalk, or in the massive, black car, for that matter.

No, no, she could do this. For heaven’s sake. She just had to make it to the car and then to her trailer. And then she could curl up in her bed and darken the lights and try and wish this headache into oblivion.

Brienne felt Jaime’s right arm wrap more securely around her waist, steadying her, as he guided her towards the car.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see someone with a camera snapping pictures.

_Shit. One of the paparazzi must have gotten wind of her hushed release and staked out this entrance._

The camera flashed again.

_This wouldn’t look good when it played out in the press -- Jaime’s arm around her, helping her to the car he had hired. She’d be lucky if Cersei didn’t send an assassin for her, after seeing those pics._

Brienne sighed; but there was nothing she could do, other than put one clumsy foot in front of the other.

 _“Jesus, what a ridiculous plot twist,”_ she thought to herself, as Jaime helped her stumble towards the car, ignoring his own limp. Of all the people to ride to her rescue, Brienne would have bet good money that Jaime would have been the last of them. But here he was, still very much recovering from his own injuries and trauma, riding in to help her with her injuries and trauma. If it were a movie, Brienne would have turned it off a long time ago. It was way too far-fetched and unrealistic.

But here they were -- about to be roommates, for Christ’s sake.

Honestly, Brienne was already somewhat regretting agreeing to let him stay. In her experience, Jaime Lannister wasn’t very good at taking care of anyone but Jaime Lannister.

However, he was right -- they did need to talk. And it actually was slightly comforting knowing that she didn’t have to handle her recovery and all it entailed by herself. It was nice having someone to lean on a bit -- someone to carry a bit of the load.

Lost in her thoughts, Brienne stumbled, falling heavily against Jaime.

However, Jaime barely moved, just pulled her more solidly into his body.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, his mouth close to her ear. “I’ve got you.”

And as he pulled the car door open and gently maneuvered her into the backseat, his prosthesis steady on the small of her back, Brienne had the surprising realization that he did, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be completely blown away by the support you've given this fic. 
> 
> Thank you so much! You are fantastic! 💖


	15. Hurricanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime takes care of Brienne and desperately wishes for space. Brienne takes her pain pills and tries not to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that "Westerosi" scenes are written out of order.

**Chapter 15**

**“Hurricanes”**

**Dido**

**“Let me face**  
**The sound and fury**  
**Let me face**  
**Hurricanes**

**Let me not turn away**  
**From happiness or pain**  
**Just not to run away**  
**In my heart and in my head**  
**Let me face**  
**Hurricanes”**

**~~~~~~**

**Ten Years Ago:**

Brienne felt the hot press of Jaime’s hands on her waist, as he tightened his grip, pulling her up and into him. Her body followed instinctively where he led, mimicking his movements -- melting into his embrace.

Jaime’s mouth was soft on her own -- wet and slightly salty. He brought one hand up to tangle in her hair, pulling it gently down from its messy bun, until it fell against her shoulders in pale, feathery waves.

Making a quiet sound in the back of her throat, Brienne relaxed, as Jaime pulled back, smiling at her with shining eyes, before ducking his head and nipping at her lower lip playfully.

She smiled softly and leaned in.

_**“Cut!”** _

Jaime stilled and dropped his hands from her, stepping back a pace and wiping his eyes.

Brienne remained motionless, breathing hard.

“And that’s a wrap on Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth.”

The sound stage erupted into applause; and Brienne was suddenly grasped in a tight embrace by Hodor, one of the grips. And, before she could even catch her breath, she found herself being passed around from one crew member to the next, as she was hugged and kissed and congratulated, until she felt like she might pass out from all of the attention.

The whole thing was difficult to process.

It was over.

Her time on _Westerosi_ was over.

After a few more moments of congratulatory chaos, the director yelled for quiet, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a stack of plastic tumblers in his others.

He popped the cork noisily, champagne spilling over in a frothy gush; and Brienne suddenly realized that she would be taking her first, actual drink.

When everyone had a tumblerful, including nineteen year old Brienne, the director cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said, addressing the crowd. “Every year on this show, we have to say goodbye to a lot of cast members. That’s just part of working on a show about high school. High school ends -- thank the gods; and the seniors have to graduate.” He looked over at Jaime. “Present exceptions noted.”

Jaime grinned and held up his plastic cup.

It had been a huge deal that the show had decided to keep Roman around a year after he graduated -- having him attend the “local” junior college. However, with the popularity of Jaime and the insane demand for more Dunc and Roman, it had been a no brainer for the producers. And Jaime had benefited. He had benefited and then some, with the most lucrative contract to have ever come out of _Westerosi_ in its over twenty year history.

“And every year, if I’m lucky enough to direct the season finale,” the director continued, “I’m here with a bottle of champagne toasting the seniors and telling them how much I’m going to miss them. But, this year…” He broke off. “This year, it’s different.”

He turned to Brienne, gesturing up at her. “I’ve known this kid here since she was barely fourteen and doing her first screen test -- all braces and freckles and blond pigtails. I saw something in her that day that I had never seen before. I turned to Petyr and said -- that girl’s a game changer. We have to hire her.”

The room applauded, Sam, who was standing to Brienne’s left, whistling loudly in agreement.

Brienne flushed.

“Petyr took a little more convincing, but I finally wore him down. And I was right. The girl was a fucking force of nature in front of the camera. And then, Lannister came on.” He turned to Jaime. “Goddamn handsome bastard.”

The room erupted into laughter.

“And the two of them together were like electricity.” The director choked up. “I mean, we’ve all seen it. Theses two on screen can change the fucking energy in a room.” He shook his head. “And I knew -- I knew -- if I could only prevent them from killing each other…” he broke off, as the laughter swelled, “that we were going to create something magic. And we did. We did.” He sniffed in, his eyes wet. “And now it’s time to send them off into the world where I know, I fucking know, they’re going to be successful.”

He turned to Jaime. “Lannister here will probably own the whole godsdamn industry in ten years.”

“Five!” Jaime cried smugly.

The crowd laughed.

“And Brienne …” He turned to Brienne. “Shit, Brienne, I feel like I’m losing a daughter, here...”

Brienne smiled a trembling smile, her cheeks red, as every eye turned to her.

“You are so supremely talented, my girl. I just hope …” he trailed off. “I just hope the world gives you a chance to show it.” He grabbed her, pulling her into an embrace, standing on tiptoes to kiss her cheek.

When he broke away, he held up his cup. “To Jaime and Brienne. They fought like hell -- but they worked like hell -- and we’re all going to miss them like hell.”

“To Jaime and Brienne!” the crowd shouted.

And Brienne blinked back tears.

**~~~~~~**

Forty minutes later, when she had made the rounds, thanking everyone, hugging everyone, saying her goodbyes to the people who had literally helped to raise her, Brienne made it back to her dressing room.

She closed the door and collapsed down in front of the mirror, studying herself.

Her face was splotchy and red, her eye make-up smudged, her hair still tangled from Jaime’s hand. She certainly didn’t look like an acclaimed actress - didn’t look like she was all set to embark upon a successful career in the industry.

But here she was -- at the crossroads.

 _Westerosi_ was over.

Dunc Duncan was over.

Brienne never had to walk these halls again -- see these people again. Never had to face the harassment again -- hear those insults -- play those storylines.

In a few minutes, she would walk out of this building a free woman-- ready to make a career on her own terms.

It would be difficult.

Maybe she would make it. Maybe she wouldn’t.

But the possibility of it -- of what was ahead-- made her breath catch.

A knock on her door startled her; and Brienne, ran her index finger under her eyes to wipe away some of the black, before rising to open it.

Tomorrow this would be someone else’s dressing room. Someone else would sit in this chair and look into this mirror and dream about this being their big break.

Consumed in her thoughts, Brienne pulled open the door.

Jaime Lannister stood leaning against the door frame. He had changed out of Roman’s costume into jeans and a black, fitted sweater, his own hair perfectly coiffed and golden, his eyes clear and free from tears.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, frowning on instinct.

_What the hells was he doing here?_

“Don’t worry,” Jaime said lightly, giving her a smirk. “I’m not here for a big, sloppy goodbye or anything.”

“Why are you here then?” She held her ground, not letting him into her dressing room.

“I don’t know,” Jaime shrugged nonchalantly. “It somehow seemed wrong just to leave without saying anything.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Brienne sighed. She glanced behind Jaime into the hallway, looking for Cersei. The two of them were attached at the hip -- never apart for very long.

Jaime laughed, returning Brienne’s attention back to him. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

“So…?” Brienne said impatiently. The sooner she could get rid of him, the sooner she could pack up and leave.

Jaime’s smirk wavered. “Christ, Tarth. We’ve only worked together for the past five years.”

“Yeah, I was there,” Brienne deadpanned. “Unfortunately.”

Jaime looked up at her, his expression strange. “Fine. If that’s how you want it.”

“Fine,” Brienne echoed, wondering again why he was even here at her door.

_Did he want some heartfelt goodbye? Did he expect her to hug him and say thanks for the memories?_

“Well, OK, then,” Jaime said testily, pushing himself off of the door frame. “I won’t tell you it’s been real or I’ve enjoyed it or I’ve learned so much from you or anything. I mean why lie at this point?”

“Yes, why lie?” Brienne agreed, rolling her eyes.

Jaime glared at her, the frustration showing on his face, until Brienne couldn’t take it anymore. “Goodbye, Jaime,” she said finally.

He looked up at her. “Goodbye, Brienne. Have a nice life.”

**~~~~~~**

Twenty minutes later, Brienne drove off of the _Westerosi_ compound for the last time.

It had been storming all day, a steady downpour falling against her windshield in sheets of icy rain.

The road out of the gated compound was long and winding, wrapping around all of the series’ exterior sets -- the sprawling, red brick buildings of the high school; the gray facade of the Kingsroad; the neighborhood where each family “lived” in neatish, freshly painted, row houses.

Unconsciously, Brienne found herself slowing down, tears once again coming to her eyes.

There were the steps of the high school that Dunc Duncan had first climbed all those years ago, when Brienne had been innocently naive about the job and all it would entail.

There was the patch of lawn under the big tree where Dunc and Edric and sometimes Bethany and Casper would eat lunch, far away from all of the drama of the cafeteria.

There was the alcove by the entrance to the gym that Roman had pulled Dunc into that one time before sixth period, when they had been caught by Mrs. Mormont, Jaime’s hand up Brienne’s shirt -- and Dunc and Brienne had almost died of embarrassment.

Brienne swallowed, steering her car past the school front.

She continued driving towards the neighborhood sets, slowly passing the Duncan residence, the Storm residence, the big, ornate driveway to the Webber mansion, its gate marked by a wrought iron spider.

Brienne laughed, a weird, choked sound echoing in the empty car.

When she came to the Kingsroad set, Brienne suddenly hit the breaks, pulling her car over and leaving the engine running.

_Hells -- Jaime was right._

_It had been five years of her life._

_Good or bad -- it had been five years._

She had to say a proper goodbye -- suddenly, her skin felt itchy with the need for it.

Brienne wrenched her car door open and set out to walk the Kingsroad set one final time.

The rain was cold, drenching her clothes, as she walked past the false fronts of the businesses -- Hot Pie’s Coffee Shop; The White Book bookstore (Dunc’s home away from home); the alleyway where her character had been attacked and almost raped by a gang of thugs; The Great Pit where _Westerosi’s_ “rough crowd” liked to hang out and get drunk…

This was where her career had begun -- where she had first experienced that heady high that acting could bring -- where she had, for the first time in her life, felt really good at something.

Yet this was also where she had almost given up -- almost chucked her dream of being an actor. This was where she had bit her tongue and held back the tears and tried to drown out all the voices, both on the inside and out, that had told her she was freakish and horrible and all wrong.

Arms crossed, to try to hold on to the little bit of warmth she had left in her body, Brienne walked along Kingsroad, letting the memories flood her -- the good and the bad -- letting them fall over her like the rain, soaking her skin, dripping down her face to mingle with her tears.

And with every step she took, Brienne felt it all washing away -- until she was left cold and wet and blessedly clean.

**~~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Brienne hadn’t been exaggerating. Her trailer was fucking small.

Jaime’s knees scraped against the underside of the stupid, collapsible kitchen/dining table, as he scrolled through his phone distractedly.

He had deposited Brienne on her bed -- the only big thing in this whole godsdamn tin can of a trailer -- two hours ago, doling out her afternoon dose of pain pills and ungracefully crawling over the bed to turn down the covers and draw the window shades.

She had been resting ever since, Jaime making sure to pull back the damn accordion door to check on her every twenty minutes.

After the strange rush of adrenaline involved in getting her released and settled, Jaime now found himself at odds with nothing to do.

It wasn’t like he was alone. Although the set was a closed one (the major reason why Brienne insisted on coming here -- no press allowed), it was a relatively active one. Since they had been there, a few people had even stopped by to ask after Brienne. However, Jaime had managed to shoo them away before they could wake her.

They had been gracious, for the most part -- although, he had been the recipient of quite a few curious stares and incredulous looks. When questioned, he had just smiled and explained concussion protocol, explained that he was just helping out a friend.

They had accepted his explanation and most of them had smiled cordially. However, none of that inspired Jaime to try and go make friends with Brienne’s coworkers. No, if Stark and the producer Jaime had yelled at were anything to go by, Jaime would be much better off keeping himself to himself.

However, that made for a very long afternoon, as Brienne rested.

Jaime had already talked to Tyrion twice, keeping his voice low, so as not to wake Brienne.

Tyrion had laughed for a solid two minutes, when Jaime had admitted that he was staying with Brienne in her shoebox of a trailer. However, when Jaime had sulked angrily in response, Tyrion had apologized and told Jaime that he was doing the right thing -- that it was about damn time that someone took care of Brienne for a change. Tyrion had even offered to fly out and relieve Jaime of some of his caretaking duties. But Jaime had assured his brother that he could handle it -- besides, there was no damn room.

Jaime looked up at the weird, black, cartoon cat clock Brienne had up on her trailer wall. Four thirty.

He should probably try to call Cersei again. However, she hadn’t taken any of his last seven calls; and Jaime was tired of pleading and justifying and trying to make her see reason.

Instead, he tossed his phone on the table and ran his hand down his face tiredly.

There was a pile of Brienne’s books and papers on the corner of the table, and Jaime pulled them over, sifting through them curiously.

The pile consisted mostly of paperback mystery novels (Brienne had always liked mystery novels -- ever since she was a kid), their covers dark and foreboding.

Jaime glanced at the back of one of them, reading the description. It didn’t sound half bad. He could always try reading one, if he got too mind-numbingly bored.

He set the book back on the pile and pulled a tattered notebook over to him. The notebook was open to a middle page, and Brienne had started a To Do list. It was nothing interesting, just a list of random reminders of things to do, most likely before the accident had happened -- call Dad, send insurance payment, buy yogurt, etc. However, at the end of the list, scribbled in Brienne’s efficient handwriting, was: “Don’t call Jaime,” followed by five exclamation points.

_“Don’t call Jaime!!!!!”_

Jaime frowned, the guilt instantly hitting him.

_Shit._

He sighed, shifting the pile of books and papers over, looking for a pen. When he found one, he awkwardly picked it up with his left hand, his fingers feeling clumsy and unpracticed.

He turned to a fresh page in the notebook and began writing.

**~~~~~~**

“Is something burning?” Brienne called hoarsely from the bedroom, an edge of panic to her voice. “Jaime?”

“Fuck,” Jaime muttered under his breath, pulling the pot of soup off of the burner and wrenching the dial to turn off the flame.

“Nothing’s burning,” he called back. “I’ve got it all under control.”

He rifled in the cupboard for bowls, picking up the handle of the pot and sloppily pouring the tinned soup into them. He opened a drawer, rooting around for spoons. It was well past seven, and he was starving.

“Do you think you can make it to the table or do you want me to bring it to you?” He called back to the bedroom, frowning at the burnt residue at the bottom of the soup pan.

_That couldn’t be good._

He heard a shuffling, and the accordion door was pulled completely back, as Brienne appeared, blinking into the dimmed light.

Her face was pale and drawn, except for the line of dark stitches on her cheek, the skin looking red and puckered around the spiky black twine.

“We need to clean your stitches,” Jaime said, coming forward to brush a finger down Brienne’s face.

She startled backwards.

“Easy,” Jaime admonished, ignoring her hesitance and grabbing her chin. “I don’t like how red they’re looking. I’ve had plenty of experience with stitches. You don’t want them infected.” He turned her face towards the light, as she frowned. “The doctor gave you antibacterial cream, didn’t she?”

Brienne grunted her assent; and Jaime nodded. “Right. Well, come and eat your soup. I’ll do your stitches after dinner.”

“I can do them myself,” Brienne grumbled, shuffling over to the table and easing herself down. She winced at the movement.

“I don’t mind,” Jaime replied, setting the bowl of soup in front of her. “I got quite good at it left handed.” He handed Brienne a spoon. “Here. Get some of that down you before the next batch of pain meds. We don’t want a repeat of what happened in the car, do we?”

Brienne’s face colored. “Sorry again about that. I did warn you though.”

And she had warned him -- crying out that she needed the car to pull over immediately. _“Immediately, Jaime! Godsdamnit!”_ Unfortunately, before the driver could do so, she had heaved her oatmeal breakfast all over leather upholstery and, embarrassingly, all over herself too.

“That you did,” Jaime said grinning. He grabbed his bowl and sat down across from her.

“I can pay for the cleaning fee. For the car, I mean,” Brienne said sheepishly. They had both agreed that the tattered clothes that she had worn home from the hospital could just be binned. “I’m sure it will be expensive.”

Jaime held up his hand. “Already taken care of. Now eat.” He gestured to her bowl.

She nodded and gathered a spoonful of the vegetable soup. She sniffed warily before putting it in her mouth, her face scrunching up.

_Gods it was horrible. Burnt tomato with chunks of... something rubbery? Was it meat or had Jaime’s prosthesis fallen into the pot, as he was cooking?_

Jaime was looking at her anxiously, so she forced herself to swallow, glancing at him through watering eyes. She gave him a weak thumbs-up sign. “Delicious. Thank you.”

Jaime frowned suspiciously at her reaction and took a bite of his own, which he immediately proceeded to spit back into his bowl.

“Shit. That’s revolting.”

He pulled her bowl away from her, before she could eat more.“No. Don’t eat that. I don't want you poisoned.” He smiled at her tiredly. “Sorry. My culinary skills leave a whole lot to be desired.”

Brienne waved him away. “I’m not that hungry anyway. Although...” She gestured to the kitchen. “There should be bread -- and butter and jam. How are you at making toast?”

“Let’s find out.” Jaime rose and started pulling items from the cabinets and fridge.

He looked over to where she was gingerly resting the good side of her head in her hand. “How’s the head?”

“Still attached,” Brienne said tiredly. “But only just.”

“Sorry,” Jaime sympathized. “I know how awful head injuries are. Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do but rest and keep up with the pain pills.”

“The worst thing, besides the headache, is that I feel like I can’t think coherently. Everything feels weird -- swollen -- like my insides are too big for my outsides.”

“I know that feeling well.”

The first batch of toast popped up, and Jaime sloppily buttered it with his left hand. He went to open the jam jar.

“Do you want me to …?” Brienne asked.

“No, I’ve got it.” He positioned the jar between his hip and the counter and pried open the lid with his left hand. “See,” he said proudly. “Nothing to it.”

Brienne nodded. “How long did I sleep for?”

“A couple hours, off and on,” Jaime replied, spreading the raspberry jam over the toasted bread. “Don’t worry. I checked on you regularly to make sure you were breathing.”

He brought the toast over to Brienne with a flourish. “Your dinner, milady. Such as it is.”

“Thanks.”

“You are very welcome. Sorry for burning the main course.”

“No. That’s fine… I just…” Brienne cleared her throat, picking up a toast point and looking down at it. “Thanks... um, Jaime,” she said finally.

Jaime looked at her curiously. “Better try it first, before you thank me.”

“No … I mean, I thought you coming here was a bad idea. Unnecessary. But, it’s nice to have someone to look after me. Someone who …”

“Makes you burnt soup and toast?”

“Makes me burnt soup and toast,” Brienne agreed, smiling faintly.

He gestured to her plate. “Eat up. I want to see to those stitches before they get too red.”

**~~~~~~~**

Brienne ate all of her toast and downed a cup of tea, before making her way back to her bed with an ice pack.

Jaime cleaned up the kitchen and washed the few dishes, leaving them to dry in the rack and then rooted around in Brienne’s hospital bag of medication for the disinfectant wipes and ointment. He rolled back the accordion door.

“All right. Do you want me to do this on the bed or would you rather come out to the table?”

“Is there enough light in here?” Brienne asked sleepily. The pain meds were already starting to take effect, her body loose and relaxed. The idea of hefting herself back out into the kitchen made her head spin ... well, spin more than normal.

“I think I can manage,” Jaime said, frowning at the situation.

The problem with Brienne’s massive bed was that it took all of the space in the tiny bedroom. Jaime would have to awkwardly crawl on his knees, in order to get to where Brienne was currently reclining against the pillows.

He tucked the ointment and wipes under his right arm and shuffled over the mattress. He almost made a quip about Brienne finally getting him into her bed after all of these years, but she looked so fragile and exhausted that Jaime thought the better of it.

“Turn your face to the light,” he said instead, pulling out a disinfectant wipe from its foil package. He tipped her chin up with the knuckle of his index finger. “OK. I’ll try to be gentle, but this may sting a bit.”

Brienne smiled a weak smile. “Do your worst.”

It did sting. In fact, it brought tears to her eyes, but she held her face still, counting her breaths in her head, until Jaime was satisfied that the wound was clean.

As he worked, he unconsciously brought his stump up to rest between her shoulder and jaw, holding her head steady. And through her discomfort, Brienne marveled at the fact that Jaime seemed to be getting used to his stump -- that he seemed to be far less embarrassed about it. Gone were the days when he had tried to keep it hidden, refused to even look at it.

“OK, time for the ointment,” Jaime said, breaking through Brienne’s thoughts.

He opened the cap with his teeth, spitting it onto Brienne’s bed.

“I can apply it,” Brienne protested, thinking of the mess; but Jaime just shook his head at her.

Somehow he managed to squeeze a bit of the cream onto his fingers. “All right. Hold still.” Jaime gently ran his index finger over her stitches, softly brushing the stiff twine back and forth.

“I don’t like that it’s so red,” he murmured worriedly. “If it hasn’t calmed down by tomorrow morning, I’m going to call the doctor.”

Brienne reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping his anxious fussing. “Jaime, it’s fine,” she soothed. “It feels better.”

His eyes shifted to hers; and suddenly Brienne realized how close they were.

They were on her bed, Jaime on his knees, bending over her body, his face inches away from her own.

Suddenly her hand felt hot on Jaime’s wrist, and she released it, shifting back further against the wall, sending her ice pack slithering down to her shoulders and back, causing her neck and arms to break out in goosebumps.

Jaime gave her a confused smile, sitting back on his knees. “Do you want me to put a bandage on it so you don’t get ointment all over the bedding?”

“No. I’ll be fine,” Brienne excused hurriedly, her face still flushed and too warm. “These pillowcases are old, anyway. If they get ruined, no big deal.”

“OK,” Jaime agreed, gathering up the ointment lid and used wipe and package. He started shuffling back on his knees to the doorway. “I’ll leave you to rest then.”

“Oh, I didn’t show you how the couch makes into a bed,” Brienne remembered. “There’s a lever on the table.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Jaime said, giving her a smile. “You rest.”

“Blankets and extra pillows are in the drawers under the couch,” Brienne explained hurriedly. “The thermostat is on the wall by the door. If you get cold, just turn up the heat. I know you are not a fan of Winterfell weather.”

“I’ll live,” Jaime said. He started pulling back the door. “If you hear something in the night, it’s just me checking on you.”

“Jaime, you don’t have to…”

“Stop. That’s the reason why I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Brienne said, biting her lip worriedly.

“You already said that.”

“And I’m saying it again.”

“Well, then you’re welcome, Brienne.” He smiled at her and then pulled the door closed.

**~~~~~~~**

They settled into somewhat of a routine the next few days.

Brienne rested most of the time, the pain pills and her injury taking a great deal out of her.

Jaime saw to her medical needs and to the domestic duties (as much as he could). The rest of the time, he kept himself busy listening to podcasts and reading Brienne’s mysteries and fielding calls from Tyrion and Varys. He also kept his normal appointment with Dr. Elder, calling in by phone.

Dr. Elder hadn’t been at all surprised to learn that Jaime had spontaneously flown out to Winterfell to take care of Brienne. It was unnerving, but Elder seemed to know Jaime almost better than Jaime knew himself. However, although it was annoying to be so known, part of Jaime was secretly touched that the old man had immediately assumed the best of Jaime -- immediately assumed that Jaime would do the honorable thing when someone was in need. It wasn’t exactly as if Elder had patted Jaime’s head and told him “good boy,” but the sentiment was there all the same.

And miraculously Jaime and Brienne managed to survive in the cramped quarters without killing each other -- the fact that Brienne was loopy on pain pills helping significantly.

There was the one tense moment when Brienne had insisted that she needed a shower and had wedged herself unsteadily into the tiny, trailer bathroom, against Jaime’s loud protests.

Of course she had overheated and gotten dizzy almost immediately. Luckily, she was so crammed into the tiny space, that she stayed upright, pitifully calling for Jaime and making him promise to keep his eyes closed until he had passed her a towel, and she had wrapped it unevenly around her body.

Even then, Jaime had managed to get a glimpse of way more pale skin and muscle than he had the right to. He had blushed to the roots of his hair; but Brienne had barely noticed, resting her dripping head on his shoulder, as he helped her out of the bathroom to sit on her bed.

He had then set about washing the leftover soap out of her hair with a washcloth and a bowl of warm water -- before drying her off, tenderly patting at the staples in her head, and helping her change into a nightshirt and pajama pants (his eyes tightly closed for that part, as per Brienne’s insistence).

It hadn’t been a big deal, but the incident had thrown Jaime more than he liked to admit.

In fact, Jaime had called Cersei almost immediately after it had happened, anxious to hear her voice. However his call had gone to voicemail once again.

_That was fine._

_He was fine._

_Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be?_

So what if the episode with Brienne made him suddenly want to bolt for the hills? So what if his traitorous mind kept replaying it over and over again? It didn’t mean anything.

_It would pass. These things always did._

However, later that night, after he had sent Brienne off to bed with her pain pills and a cup of warm tea, Jaime had found himself on the stupid, uncomfortable couch, staring out the trailer window at the stars and chastising himself for his delinquent thoughts.

She was Brienne, for fuck’s sake. It was completely unfair of him to even think of her that way. Besides, the poor girl was a mess. Hells, she had looked half dead there in the shower -- sopping wet and unsteady, with stitches and bruises and skin paler than the snow outside.

_Shit._

Something was very wrong with him … or maybe it had just been way too long since he had had sex.

_Of course! That was probably it! That was probably what was making him crazy._

Gods, if only Cersei would take his goddamn call.

Eventually, Jaime had fallen into a restless sleep. And things had gone back to normal the next day -- or, at least, they had gone back to normal for Brienne.

Jaime, however, had had just about enough of the fucking close quarters.

The trailer was literally killing him.

He couldn’t move without hitting something, couldn’t escape Brienne’s stupid eyes, couldn’t take a full breath without breathing her in. It was like they were tethered together, bound by an invisible rope that kept getting tighter and tighter and tighter, until he could barely breathe. The whole thing was maddening -- making Jaime uncomfortably itchy in his own skin, -- which wasn’t good, because he was already on tenterhooks as it was, waiting to have the godsdamn promised apology conversation.

He had tried to start the conversation a couple of times already, but Brienne kept putting him off, saying that she just didn’t have the energy.

But it was getting ridiculous.

_It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all._

Jaime needed some resolution. He needed some goddamn space. He couldn’t keep going around in this state of not knowing, especially with the walls closing in more and more each day. Things were already confusing enough.

Unfortunately, everything had come to a head at the lunch table.

Brienne had simply suggested that Jaime take a day away -- get out and get some fresh air (pretty much what Jaime had been feeling since the previous night). But, instead of agreeing, Jaime had snapped at her, telling her that, if he took the day off, Brienne would just end up passed out in the shower again; and he would come back to find her naked and wet and drowned on the bathroom floor.

She had blushed bright red and blinked at him. And Jaime had felt miserable and guilty all over again.

He had tried to excuse his behavior by complaining about his sleepless nights on the fucking sorry excuse for a bed. But that had only made Brienne feel worse.

She had apologized profusely for the uncomfortable couch and the cramped trailer. And then she had quietly suggested that it might be time for Jaime to go back home. She had assured him that there were plenty of people on set who could help her out. In fact Robb had been by just yesterday (when Jaime had left to call Elder) and had offered to help, so that Jaime could go back to his own life.

And that fucking suggestion had pissed Jaime off to all seven hells. He had managed to keep it together enough to wave off Brienne’s concern. However, he had left the trailer right after.

He had told Brienne he was off to raid Craft Services for edible food; but really Jaime just needed to get the hell out and away from her so he could think -- figure out how to navigate Brienne’s recovery without going crazy in the process.

An hour of fresh air and two blueberry muffins did the trick; and, calmer, Jaime returned to the trailer, ready to apologize for his earlier outburst. However, stepping through the trailer door, Jaime was met with the incongruous tableaux of Brienne perched at the table, laughing and sharing a beer with Robb and the stupidly fit actor who played Ser Gareth on her show.

Jaime closed his eyes tightly and inhaled, trying to keep his temper.

Pulling the door shut behind him, Jaime frowned at the threesome, his eyes narrowing at Brienne. “You shouldn’t be drinking alcohol on your pain meds. You know that.”

Brienne shot him an embarrassed look, pushing her glass slightly away. “It’s fine Jaime. It’s just a few sips.”

“Yeah, Jaime, it’s just a few sips,” Robb echoed snarkily, picking up his own glass and draining it. He looked up at Jaime challengingly.

The other boy laughed.

“You didn’t tell us your dad was coming, Brienne,” the boy quipped, picking up the joke. He gave Jaime a wicked grin. “You must have been quite young when you had her, Sir. We’re sorry for keeping her out past curfew. Please don’t ground her. She’s a good girl; she’s just been a victim of peer pressure.”

Robb and Gendry laughed at that, and Jaime's shoulders tightened.

“Stop,” Brienne sputtered, embarrassed, pushing her glass further away guiltily. She waved her hand at Jaime. “Gendry, this is Jaime,” she introduced. “We used to work together.” She pointed to Gendry. “Jaime, this is Gendry. We currently work together.”

Gendry held out his hand. But Jaime just raised his eyebrows, holding up his stump; and Gendry lowered his own hand, slightly abashed but still grinning.

“We were just telling Brienne, here, that she’s looking better,” Robb said, smiling at Brienne. “Much better, in fact. It won’t be long until she’s completely back on the game. The lads have got a pool going on it.”

“I’ve got next Tuesday,” Gendry said, taking a large gulp of beer. “So, if you could get on that, Brienne, I'd appreciate it.”

Brienne laughed; but Jaime frowned, leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing his arms.

“Head injuries are nothing to play around with, boys,” Jaime said lowly. “Did she tell you she almost passed out in the shower yesterday?” He nodded at Robb smugly. “Luckily, I was there to rescue her, before she fell and hit her head again.”

Robb turned bright red and gaped at Brienne.

“It wasn’t that bad,” she said sheepishly. “I just got a little light headed.”

Robb reached out his hand to cover hers. “Are you OK now?”

Brienne smiled an awkward smile; and Jaime rolled his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said, squeezing Robb’s hand and then releasing it. “Jaime’s been taking good care of me.”

“Well, if you need anything -- ever -- you know I’m here. And Gendry too.”

“You heard her, Stark,” Jaime said lightly, his face victorious. “She’s just fine.”

However, Brienne hushed him, her cheeks still bright red.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” she said to Robb. “I appreciate you both.”

They fell into an awkward silence, until Gendry, looking between Jaime and Robb, grinned and pushed back from the table with a laugh.

“Well, Robby Stark, what do you say we get back to it, before they send out a search party?” He turned to Brienne. “Since they’ve moved out the filming of your scenes, Robby and I are 'on' way more than normal. We’re feeling quite in demand these days.”

Brienne grimaced. “I’m so sorry, guys,” she said guiltily. “Hopefully, I’ll be back to my fighting weight soon.” She rose a little unsteadily from the table.

Robb smiled at her fondly, coming around to give her a hug. “Just get better, Tarth. That’s all we want.” He rose up on his toes to kiss her good cheek.

Gendry turned from where he stood by the door. “Feel better, Bri,” he said, winking at her. He turned to Jaime. “Nice to meet you, Lannister. Anytime you want to have a drink, come on by.”

Jaime looked at him suspiciously. “Thanks.”

Robb grunted and didn’t echo the invitation. Instead, he pushed past Jaime on his way to the door, looking back at the last moment to give him a hard stare, before nodding at Brienne.

“Anything you need, Brienne. I mean it,” Robb said earnestly.

She nodded solemnly and gave him a smile.

Once they were gone, Brienne sighed, collecting the empty beer glasses. “Was that really necessary?”

“What?”

“Why are you so mean to him?” She said, shaking her head.

“Who? Stark? I was perfectly pleasant.”

“And did you really have to tell them about the shower thing? It was embarrassing enough without the whole set knowing.”

Jaime grinned. “I just wanted him to think twice before offering you alcohol. You’re still not running on all cylinders.”

“I only had like three sips,” Brienne said tiredly.

“Well, you still look green,” Jaime fussed, coming forward to place his hand on her head.

She shook him off. “I’m fine.”

Jaime was just about to ask to check her stitches, when his phone rang.

He startled, watching as Cersei’s face flashed across the screen. He looked up at Brienne guiltily.

Brienne only shrugged and gestured for him to answer it, turning to shuffle towards the bedroom.

Jaime took the call outside, walking as far away from the trailer as he could get.

“Cersei,” he said nervously. “I’m so glad you called.”

“Yes, well I hope I’m not taking you away from any of your nursing duties, darling. Do let me know if you need to go and give Brienne a sponge bath or something.”

Jaime colored, his face heating, as the arrow hit too close to the mark. “Cers, it’s not like that, as you well know.”

“How would I know?” She laughed lightly, the sound false and hollow. “No, all I know is that I had planned an amazing reunion weekend with my boyfriend, only to have him stand me up so that he could run to the bedside of another woman.”

“Not another woman, Cersei, Brienne. Brienne -- who’s been there for me after my own accident -- many times.”

“Which is most of the fucking problem.”

Jaime sighed. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know how many goddamn pictures of the two of you there have been in the press? So many bloody pictures! Your arm around her, looking at her lovingly. Her looking like a reanimated corpse.”

“Cersei, she’s injured. And I was simply helping her walk without falling.”

“It’s a bloody PR nightmare.”

“There is nothing to it, though -- the story the press is running with. I am only helping her get back on her feet. The paps will get tired of the whole thing and drop it soon.”

“That doesn’t matter, though, does it, darling? It’s all about the optics. It’s bad enough to have the press speculating that you’ve left me for another woman -- but for _that_ woman? It’s humiliating. I can’t begin to tell you how much of an insult it is to me.”

Jaime felt his jaw tighten. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Cersei? That you’re worried…” He broke off in frustration. “Christ, please tell me you are not really that shallow.”

Cersei inhaled. “You are my boyfriend, Jaime. Mine. Brienne has plenty of people in her life to help her through whatever she needs to get through. And I don’t understand why, all of a sudden, you are acting like she’s your best friend. You hated her on _Westerosi._ Truly hated her. Tormented her terribly.”

“Well, maybe I’m trying to make up for that,” Jaime gritted out.

“Why, though? Why? How can that possibly be good for her? What could she possibly be getting out of it, having her tormentor back in her life? Tell me, Jaime my love, are you trying to use her to clear your conscience? Because, if that is the case, I’d caution you to look deeply at yourself before you judge others for being shallow.”

Jaime felt the punch of guilt in his gut. “It’s not like that, Cersei.”

“Mmm… so you keep saying. I think, my darling, that you have a great deal of thinking to do. Call me when you’ve figured it all out.”

“Cersei…” Jaime tried.

“No, I’m tired of your excuses. Give my best to Brienne -- or maybe don’t. I’m sure she’s not under any delusions that we are suddenly friends, even though she’s currently being nursed back to health by _my_ boyfriend. She may have a head injury, but even she knows when someone is putting on an act.”

“Cersei.”

“Talk later, love.” And then she was gone.

_Fuck!_

Well, he was making an absolute mess of this.

Cersei was pissed at him.

Brienne was pissed at him.

_Was Cersei right, though? Was he only using Brienne to clear his conscience? Would Brienne be better off if he didn’t meddle in her life?_

Christ, he just needed to bite the bullet and start the apology conversation with Brienne -- figure out where he stood. Where she stood.

_Gods, what if Cersei was right, though?_

He had been such an asshole to Brienne. Was it wrong of him to ask her to forgive him for it?

_Hells, maybe he should call Elder. Try to get his head straight._

But, no. He and Brienne had danced around everything for far too long. He just needed to do it. Pull the damn trigger. Get it all out there and then deal with the consequences, whatever they were.

After twenty more minutes of nervous pacing, Jaime finally made his way back to Brienne’s trailer.

Cautiously, he knocked on the accordion door, almost praying that Brienne was asleep.

When he heard her soft, mumbled, “Come in,” he frowned, drawing back the door.

Brienne looked at him curiously. “Everything OK?”

Jaime nodded. “Yes … I mean … no.” He nervously took a seat at the end of Brienne’s bed. “Can we talk?”

“Sure?” Brienne’s voice was hesitant.

“I mean really talk. Have the conversation?”

Brienne nodded, a guarded look tightening her features. “Yeah. We can talk.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither of them willing to start.

“Jaime, I …” Brienne finally began, but he cut her off.

“Brienne, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I should have listened to you that night. I should have apologized immediately.”

The words came out in a tumble, running into each other in his haste to get them out.

“I mean it’s just that I was so shocked -- which is stupid. Because, why should I be shocked? I knew I was an asshole. I mean, at first I thought that I really didn’t know -- that I had no idea how much I hurt you back then. But I kind of think I might have. I honestly think I might have, and I did it anyway. And I’m so sorry. Brienne, the truth is, I have no excuse -- no fucking excuse.”

Brienne blinked, trying to process his torrent of words.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you, if you hated me. Wouldn’t blame you at all.”

“I don’t hate you, Jaime,” Brienne said quietly. “I just don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you were so awful.”

“Shit. Well, that makes two of us.”

Jaime shook his head, falling back on the bed and throwing his arm over his eyes. “Elder and I have spent hours and hours these last few weeks trying to figure it out; but what I’ve come to realize is that it really doesn’t matter, because there is no good reason. There is nothing I can say to make my behavior back then OK.”

Brienne nodded stiffly.

Jaime turned his head to look up at her. “It kills me that I hurt you,” he said miserably.

“All right.”

“All right? That’s it?” Jaime’s voice rose in question, his frustration evident.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” she replied tersely. “Do you want me to try to make you feel better? Do you want me to tell you that it’s fine -- that it didn’t hurt that much? I can’t do that, Jaime. You hurt me. Every insult, every look of disgust, every time you backed up one of Cersei’s attacks. It hurt. A lot.” She sniffed. “And then when I finally told you how I felt, you told me to go and didn’t speak to me for weeks.” She looked at him. “I won’t tell you that it didn’t hurt. That I’m fine. I’m not.”

“I know,” Jaime said dejectedly. "I know that."

He shuffled in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and sitting up. “Can I show you something? Please?”

She nodded, and he held out the paper to her.

“What’s this?”

“Uh … I thought it would be a good idea to do some homework. You know, like Dr. Elder’s always suggesting? I wrote these down the first day here, when you were sleeping.”

“OK?” Brienne said questioningly. “You want me to read them?”

“Yeah, I mean -- it might be easier, you know, knowing what’s going on in my head. I’m not always so good at explaining myself.”

Brienne’s eyebrows rose. “You think?”

She uncrumpled the paper, smoothing it out, before bringing it up to her face and blinking.

“My handwriting’s shit,” Jaime said sheepishly. “You probably can’t read it.”

“No, no, your handwriting’s fine,” Brienne protested. “It’s just the concussion. The letters seem to be melting into each other.”

“Here,” Jaime held out his hand. “Let me read it.”

Brienne passed back the paper.

He swallowed, looking up at her, the vulnerability naked in his glance.

“OK. It’s like a list of fears. It’s everything I’m thinking -- that I’ve been thinking since our fight." He took a deep breath. "Number one: I don’t know why I was so awful to you. And I’m afraid that means that I am just a terrible person.”

He paused, looking at her, but she nodded at him to continue.

“Number two: I’m afraid that I haven’t changed. That I don’t have the capacity to change. That I’m still that horrible person that you knew, and I’ll always be.”

He hurriedly skipped to the next number, not giving her a chance to react to that one. “Number three: I’m afraid that you won’t forgive me -- and worse that you shouldn’t forgive me. That I can’t be trusted and that I will only end up hurting you again.”

He cleared his throat, avoiding looking at her. “Number four: I’m afraid that you will see that I’m not worth the trouble, and I will have lost any chance of friendship with you. And number five…” he trailed off. “I’m afraid that, even if you do forgive me, this will always be between us -- those shitty things that I’ve done. I won’t be able to get past them -- won't be able to come back from them. And it will ruin everything.”

He crumpled the paper up in his fist, throwing it beside him on the bed, and then turned to look directly at her.

Brienne closed her eyes against his stare.

“Please, Brienne. Say something.”

After a minute of silence, she opened her eyes.

“When I was ten,” she began, sitting up slightly and leaning forward. “I was really tall for my age, as you can imagine. And, I think, the boys were intimidated.”

She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “A group of them set about harassing me -- making my life hell. You know, as boys do.”

Jaime reddened and ducked his head, the guilt sharp and bright.

“It got so bad that the teacher took notice. And the counselor called us all in for conflict management, I think she called it. Anyway, she made us all sit in a circle; and she made them apologize to me. And then she made me forgive them.”

Brienne shook her head. “But the thing was, they weren’t sorry. Anyone could see that. And by having me forgive them, she was saying that I owed them something.”

Her eyes flashed in the dim light. “I got really upset about it and went home crying to my dad. And he stormed into that school and told off the counselor. And then he sat me down and explained something that made it all make a little more sense -- at least to me. He explained that too many people see contrition and forgiveness as gifts to be given. But that’s not right, exactly. They aren’t things so much as they are actions. It’s not enough to be sorry -- to give someone your apology. You have to show it --prove that you are better than those actions -- every day -- as much as you can, as often as you can. And sometimes you fuck-up. But you don’t chuck it in and say ‘well, I tried, but I’m just an awful person. Guess I can’t change.’ You say you’re sorry, and you listen, and you try to do better.”

“And the same thing goes for forgiveness. As lovely as the idea of giving someone the gift of forgiveness is -- it’s bollocks. Forgiveness is work -- it’s conscious action-- it’s a choice, every time. And some days it’s really hard to make that choice. Some days it’s really, really hard. And that’s OK too. Because forgiveness is never owed. You see,” she gestured between the two of them, “the whole thing is not necessarily a transaction. You can repent without forgiveness; and you can forgive without receiving repentance. It’s the acts that matter, not the results.”

“So what are you saying then?” Jaime said, totally confused.

“Well, it seems to me that you are worried that you’re unworthy of forgiveness.” She gestured to the crumpled paper. “That you’re just a bad person and always will be. And what I’m saying is that I think you’re better than your past actions. But, it doesn’t matter what I think, it doesn’t even matter what I do -- whether I forgive you or if I’ve already forgiven you. It matters what you do -- from here on out. That will determine what kind of person you are.”

Jaime nodded solemnly. “I guess that’s fair.”

“And I have to say, Jaime, what you’re doing now -- being here, wanting to better and to make amends -- it's a good start. I think it says a lot.”

He sighed miserably. “For the record, I am so goddamn sorry, Brienne. I wish I could go back and change things.”

She smiled at him sadly. “If wishes were horses …”

“I know.”

He shuffled over closer to her on the bed. And they fell into a silence again.

“OK, I totally get what you’re saying about actions and everything. And I agree,” Jaime said hesitantly, when he couldn’t bear the silence one more minute. “But just so I know -- we’re OK, right?”

Brienne huffed, shaking her head. “Jaime, have we ever been OK?”

“Well, OK for us, then?”

“We’re OK for us,” she said quietly.

Jaime nodded. “Good.”

“Don’t fuck it up, though.” She gave him a wry smile.

“I won’t. Believe me, I will do everything in my power not to fuck it up.” He leaned back again on the bed, this time inching his body up and turning onto his side until he was almost parallel with her.

“What are you doing?”

“This bed is so comfortable,” he said, burrowing into her quilts and blankets and closing his eyes. “No wonder you spend so much time in here.” He sighed contently. “Honestly, Brienne, that damn couch of yours could be registered as a fucking torture device.”

“You can’t sleep here, Jaime. It’s my bed,” Brienne protested primly, edging a little further towards the wall.

Jaime exhaled tiredly. “Just a little nap. It’s big enough for the two of us.”

“Jaime. No. There are already a million rumors, as it is.”

“No one can see inside the trailer. And you said we were OK -- OK for us, anyway. What better way to mark our truce than to share our spoils?”

“You mean my spoils. And, Jaime, even if we’re OK, that doesn’t mean we should be sharing a bed.”

When he didn’t answer, Brienne gave a sigh of exasperation. “Jaime?”

She reached out and poked his side, causing him to wiggle away from her finger. “Are you honestly ignoring me?”

“Shh -- trying to sleep, here, Brienne,” he grumbled, turning fully onto his stomach.

“Gods, you’re a child.”

“No, I’m tired. So fucking tired. Please, Brienne, just a few hours?”

Brienne grunted, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Just a nap, though. You sleep in your own bed tonight, Jaime Lannister. I mean it.”

But Jaime didn’t answer, his breath softly regulating, as he fell into the deepest sleep he had had in a very long time.

**~~~~~~~**

It felt like a weight had been lifted from Jaime’s chest. He claimed it was because he had finally slept for actual consecutive hours without waking; but it really was because the air had finally been cleared.

Oh, it was not like Brienne had absolved him of all his sins or anything. But she had given him a chance. And she had told him that she believed that he was a better person, which, coming from her, was like winning a fucking Oscar.

There was a new ease to their interactions -- a new looseness. All those eggshells that the two of them had been tiptoeing around, had been swept away. And, thankfully, at least for Jaime, the trailer didn’t seem quite so small anymore. In fact, since they had declared their new truce, Jaime hadn’t had one inappropriate thought about Brienne -- which was good, because, after all, she was freaking Brienne.

No, it was definitely nice to have one less thing to worry about. Because, truth be told, Jaime already had plenty to worry about on his own -- things like his girlfriend, who was currently not speaking to him; and his career, which was currently going nowhere; and stupid Robb Stark, who was becoming an absolute pest; and then, worst of all, there was Varys’ phone call.

**~~~~~~~**

  
Jaime had been gone a long time; and Brienne was starting to worry.

He had received a call from Varys, leaving the trailer to take it. But that had been almost an hour ago.

Brienne had already finished her lunch and washed her few dishes and wiped down the counters anxiously.

_What could be keeping him? Was it something bad?_

Brienne’s fears seemed to be confirmed when Jaime finally stumbled back into the trailer, looking pale and drawn -- like he had aged ten years.

“Is everything OK?” Brienne asked tentatively.

Jaime nodded distractedly.

It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, so Brienne respected his wishes. However, she couldn’t help but worry. Maybe there was some big career crisis. Maybe Jaime needed to get back to King’s Landing, and he was afraid to tell her that. Maybe the whole made up scandal in the press had gotten out of hand, and they needed to do some serious damage control.

Finally, after choking down a tense dinner of cheese and tomato sandwiches, Brienne could take it no more.

“You know, Jaime, the doctor says I’m improving daily. If you need to leave, to go back home, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Jaime looked at her sharply. “Do you want me to go?”

“I didn’t say that. I said, if you need to go, I’ll be fine.”

Jaime sighed, running his hand through his hair. “No, I'm sorry. It’s just … Varys called earlier.”

Brienne nodded in acknowledgement.

“Apparently, they’re organizing a memorial service for Torrhen Karstark, the man killed ... in the car accident.”

“The accident was months ago. Wasn’t there already a funeral?”

“Yes,” Jaime said hoarsely. “But apparently the man was quite a hero. Brilliant military career -- rescued women and children, led his men honorably. His father is a highly decorated general. And, because of that and because of the kid’s own service record, the military wants to celebrate him.” He sighed. “There’s going to be a big, public memorial -- all the bells and whistles.”

Brienne nodded.

“Varys thinks I need to be there.”

“Why?”

“He thinks it’s only right. Thinks it would look bad if I didn’t attend. Seeing as how I survived, and Karstark … didn’t.”

“The press will be there?”

Jaime laughed bitterly. “Yes, of course, they will be there. Varys is no dummy. He knows an important photo op when he sees one.”

“Do you think you’re up to it?”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

“But you’re scared to go?”

“Terrified. I just… I mean, I wish…”

Brienne reached out grabbing Jaime’s hand, as it lay on the table.

He looked at their joined hands cautiously and then up at her face, his eyes questioning.

“You know that it wasn’t your fault, right?” she said softly. “No one thinks that. He ran into you. His car hit yours. There was nothing you could have done to save him.”

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t make me feel any better.” Jaime hung his head, avoiding her eyes.

“I know,” Brienne said quietly. She was silent for a moment.

“Do you want me to go with you? To the service?”

Jaime laughed a tired laugh. “No, that’s all we need -- more pictures of the two of us together. The press would have a field day. Besides...” He took a deep breath. “This is something I have to do myself. Stand on my own two feet for once.”

Brienne nodded at him. She withdrew her hand; and Jaime felt its loss immediately.

“The whole thing just takes me right back there again,” he said tiredly. "As if I haven't moved past it at all."

“Sometimes… “ Brienne began, her voice quiet. “Sometimes it seems like life is just one hard thing after another, doesn’t it? Sometimes it seems like winter is endless and summer will never come.”

Jaime smiled a faint, sad smile. “Honestly, Brienne, I don’t even remember summer.”

She looked at him solemnly. “Yes, but the lucky thing is, Jaime, you don’t have to remember it for it to come again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter’s song has been one that I’ve listened to on repeat since the pandemic hit. If you are feeling the need for some inspiration, or some courage, or just some damn good music, check it out (wear headphones to fully experience the sound of the storm). 
> 
> Also, I know I sound like a broken record, but I just wanted to give another shout-out to every single one of you for all of the encouragement that you’ve sent my way. I am so grateful for the support. It makes writing for this fandom so incredibly validating. 
> 
> And, speaking of that, apparently we are in the midst of a massive J/B fic exchange (yay!!). Because so many fics are currently hitting the feed (just waiting to be read and celebrated), I’ve decided to take a one week hiatus from COACC (actually it couldn’t have come at a better time, since my work is also ramping up, and I ran out of pre-written chapters way back in Chapter 8). So I’ll be back with the next installment in two weeks. In the meantime, I encourage everyone to go read all of the amazing exchange fics by the incredibly talented writers of this fandom.
> 
> Thanks again, gang! See you in two weeks!


	16. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmm … mmm … mmm. Tastes like symbolism.😉

**“The Funeral”**

**Band of Horses**

**“I'm coming up only to hold you under**   
**I'm coming up only to show you wrong**   
**And to know you is hard, we wonder**   
**To know you, all wrong we were”**

**~~~~~~**

  
**Twelve Years Earlier:**

**_Westerosi_ , Season 23, Episode 13, Scene 27 “Fadeaway”**

_She’s nervous._

_Dunc looks at the massive entryway of the Webber residence and swallows down her instinct to retreat back to the safety of her mother’s station wagon._

_Really, there’s no need to panic. She’s been here a million times; and although the palatially cold Webber residence is not her favorite place to be, it’s not like it’s scary or threatening or anything. Who cares if Mrs. Webber is severe and unapproving? Who cares if Raina’s second language is biting and pointed insults? Hells, Dunc’s used to all that._

_Besides this is not about Dunc -- or Raina -- or Mrs. Webber. Not really._

_This is about Roman. Despite what an asshole he’s been to her -- despite the fact that he’s trampled her heart by kissing her and looking at her with those stupid eyes of his and causing her to hope, to really, really hope, only to rip it all away again -- he needs her right now._

_He needs her, so she is here. There’s nothing more to it._

_Dunc squares her shoulders, marshals her defenses, and raises her hand to knock._

_Just an hour ago, Dunc had been home buried under a pile of AP Physics homework, doing her best not to think of Roman Webber at all. But that was before her brother had come in from basketball practice._

_Brandon had bypassed the refrigerator, which was usually his first stop after practice. Instead, he had sat down across from Dunc and taken her hand, which was weird -- because he was Brandon and her brother, and she couldn’t remember the last time he had held her hand (when she was five maybe?). But he had held her hand loosely in his far bigger one and told her that Roman’s father, Wy Webber, had died suddenly of a heart attack earlier that morning; and that Roman was taking it hard._

_Apparently there had been an incident at practice (which Roman shouldn’t have been at, but no one had the balls to say anything)._

_Roman had lashed out at a teammate and then attacked the coach (who was only trying to break up the fight but ended up getting popped in the face), before tearing out of the gym, hellbent on destroying everything in his path._

_Brandon was worried. Really, really worried. And Brandon hated Roman Webber._

_“Gods,” Dunc had murmured, her heart aching, even though Roman had well and truly trampled it. “Do you think he’ll be OK?”_

_“I was hoping you could talk to him,” Brandon had admitted -- which again was shocking because hadn’t he spent the last two years telling Dunc in no uncertain terms to stop fucking talking to Roman fucking Webber?_

_“I’m not sure he’d want that.” Dunc had pulled her hand back, flashing back to prom -- flashing back to Raina’s cutting insults and Roman’s telling silence. “We aren’t really friends anymore.”_

_“I think he would, Dunc,” Brandon said simply, pushing himself up from the table. Her brother had looked at her seriously, scratching the beginning of the five o’clock shadow dusting his face. “I think Roman needs someone right now; and something tells me that you’re one of the only ones he will let in.”_

_So here she is, ready to be turned away -- ready to be screamed at and humiliated, if that’s what it takes for Roman to realize that he doesn’t have to be alone in this._

_Dunc’s knock sounds feeble, so she inhales and knocks again, this time with purpose._

_Before she can compose herself or figure out what to say, the door is pulled open, and Dunc is greeted with the cold, tightly stretched face of Raina Webber._

_Raina’s eyes are red-rimmed, her green pupils dull and oddly vulnerable._

_“What are you doing here?” The words have none of the calculated venom that Dunc has come to expect from Raina. No, Raina sounds stuffy and blunt -- not sharp and quick._

_Dunc shifts from one foot to another. Never the most articulate in the best of times, she stumbles to get the words out. “Raina. I’m … I am so sorry to hear about your father. I just wanted to make sure that you guys are OK -- that … that Roman is OK. My brother said that something happened during basketball practice and …”_

_“We’re fine.” Raina’s voice is distant, detached. “I’ll let Roman know that you came by.”_

_The door starts to close, and, without thinking, Dunc reaches out to stop it. “Is he here? Could I talk to him?”_

_Raina’s smile is hollow. “Our father just died -- hours ago. You’re going to have to excuse us for not being up to seeing visitors right now.”_

_Dunc blushes, the heat of her face causing her eyes to smart. “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. Let him know that if he needs any…”_

_But the door has already been pushed shut._

_Shit._

_Dunc turns and slowly starts making her way down the drive._

_She should call him or text him --let him know that she’s here. But maybe Raina’s right. Maybe it’s too soon; and she would just be imposing._

_Dunc is so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost misses the sharp thwack and hiss -- the sound of something hitting against a hard surface repeatedly. She turns suddenly, going over to the side gate, undoing the latch and letting herself into the backyard._

_Roman is standing in the huge, outdoor basketball court that his father paid to put in when Roman was four and had first shown signs of excelling in the sport. Dunc’s seen him play here many times. Sometimes she has even played with him, after a tutoring session. Not that she’s any good or anything. Despite her height and her brother’s natural propensity for the sport, Dunc’s pretty useless on the court. She’s not super graceful, and, most of the time, she can barely get the damn ball in the damn basket._

_However, she had been willing to humiliate herself on the court for Roman -- especially when she'd realized that an impromptu one-on-one game could give Roman back some of the confidence that their study sessions invariably leached out of him. It seemed such a small price to pay, after hours of watching Roman struggle through trig or chemistry, to let him shine -- even if it was at her own expense._

_And Roman was truly amazing on the court. A thing of beauty. Of course, he was already beautiful. But seeing him in his element -- seeing all of the hours of practice and dedication come together in a moment of brilliant synergy -- watching him unleash all that grace and strength and precision -- well, if she hadn’t already fallen in love with him years ago, watching that, she would have been a total goner._

_Today, there is no beauty._

_There is only pain._

_Dunc stands back and watches Roman shoot the ball over and over and over again. He makes only a quarter of his shots, at best -- his movements becoming more manic each time he misses._

_After a missed three-pointer goes spinning away over the yard, Dunc can’t keep her presence hidden any longer._

_Roman turns to retrieve the ball and sees her._

_“Hey,” she says, suddenly nervous._

_She walks over to the bushes and picks up the ball, passing it to him the way he’s taught her._

_He catches it, still staring at her. “What are you doing here?”_

_He is so much like his twin. Same beautiful face. Same cold expression. Same red-rimmed eyes. However, there is a softness to him, under that hard shell of detached contempt. Dunc knows it well. She’s seen it a great deal. It’s why she’s here, even though he’s hurt her -- even though, if their situations were reversed, she’s not sure he would do the same._

_“I was worried about you.”_

_She wants to take a step towards him, but she’s afraid she’d be overstepping -- which is hilarious, because she only just now got the literal sense of that phrase and… Shit, Dunc. Now is not the time._

_“I .. I’m sorry,” she stutters instead._

_“Yeah. Well, he was an asshole,” Roman says, turning back to the hoop, dribbling the ball slowly._

_“I’m still sorry,” Dunc insists. This time she does take a step forward. It’s easier when his back is turned to her._

_He shoots, making the basket this time, going to retrieve the rebound. “Did you know,” he says, dribbling around the court. His steps are rote, his hands and feet working on muscle memory. “Did you know that every time I lost a game, the fucker would make me come out here and practice for hours, until he was satisfied that I wouldn’t always be such a loser?”_

_“What?” Dunc says, confused._

_“Yeah. Even when I was a little kid -- like seven or something. If the team lost, I was out here for hours. Rain, darkness, homework -- it didn’t matter. He wanted to pound it into me that losing was not something a Webber would ever tolerate.”_

_“Gods, Roman, I …”_

_“I got good though.” Roman laughs harshly. “I guess the son of a bitch got something right.”_

_He shoots and misses, jogging to retrieve the ball._

_“That’s not right,” Dunc protests. “Roman, no kid should have to …”_

_“Yeah, well, I wasn’t just any kid. I was Wy Webber’s kid, wasn’t I?”_

_“I’m sorry,” Dunc says miserably, wishing she could go to him._

_Roman laughs again, shaking his head. “Shit. Nothing I can do now. The asshole’s dead.”_

_He shoots and makes it, catching it in the air before it has the time to hit the ground._

_“Roman,” she tries, coming forward._

_“You know, everybody wants me to be sad,” he grits out, stopping the ball and turning to her. “Everybody expects it from me. But I’m not sad. I’m pissed. I’m pissed that the bastard didn’t live long enough for me to escape this fucking place and tell him to go to hell.” He laughs and looks down. “Although, he’s probably there now so I guess there’s no need … is there, Dad?” He salutes the pavement under his feet._

_Dunc frowns, coming closer. “Roman…”_

_He turns and throws the ball at full force._

_It hits the backboard and ricochets off into the bushes._

_He doesn’t move. Just stands there facing the basket, his body visibly shaking._

_“I hate him. I fucking hate him,” he says finally._

_He has started to cry, silent streams running down his face. His hands are balled up into fists at his sides._

_She takes three steps and pulls him towards her. She is taller than him -- she is taller than everybody -- so she pulls his head into the space between her shoulder and neck, one hand at his back and one hand in his hair._

_He crumples into her, suddenly, all the tension gone -- a sagging weight against her. And Dunc, for the first time in her life, is thankful that she is big. That she is big enough to support him -- to hold him up._

_Roman is strangely silent in his grief, his body jerkily trembling --- making no sound except a ragged, choked inhalation and exhalation, as he tries to catch his breath._

_Dunc doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t lost anyone important in her life yet. Her parents are still together, her grandparents still alive. But she has known pain and anger and helplessness. She is well acquainted with them. So she does what she always wishes someone would do for her in those moments. She holds Roman, petting him like she does her cat -- running her fingers through his hair, caressing his neck, his ears, the tops of his shoulders. She uses her body to support his weight and simply soothes -- reminding him with the solid bulk of her that he is not alone._

_“I don’t want to be like him,” Roman finally croaks, his voice muffled against her jacket. “He's so fucking awful -- was so awful. I hate that I’m like him.”_

_“You’re not.”_

_He lifts his head and looks up at her, his face wrecked. “I am,” he says solemnly. “I’m no better. Look how I treated you.”_

_Dunc smiles sadly at that, running a finger down one of the tracks of his tears, smoothing away the wetness. “OK, you were an asshole in that case. But I’ve seen you be kind. I’ve seen you be good. I’ve seen you be the better man. Many times.”_

_She reaches out and untangles a strand of his hair that is caught up in the wet of his eyelashes. The skin under his eye is starting to purple from his fight._

_“I’m going to tell you something that I probably shouldn’t, Roman Webber, considering your ego and everything.” Dunc gives him a half smile, her thumb edging the bruise on his face. “You have it in you to be really great. You do. You just have to choose it.”_

_He shakes his head and tightens his arms around her, letting his head fall back against her neck._

_“You wanna know the dumbest thing about all of this?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “I miss him. He was meaner than cat piss and didn’t give two shits about me except when I was winning on the court; but I miss him so damn much, Dunc. I feel like an asshole, but I do.”_

_“Of course you do,” Dunc consoles. She’s started to sway from side to side, gently rocking him back and forth in the cradle of her too-long arms._

_“How fucked up is it to miss someone you hate?”_

_“Not fucked up at all,” Dunc says. “He was your dad. Whatever else he was, he was that. And it’s OK to miss him, Roman. It’s OK to hate him and to miss him and, hell, even to love him. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s OK.”_

_“It’s just … he’s my family,” Roman tries to explain. “Was my family.” He sniffs in harshly and looks up, his gaze miserable. “They’re all I have, Dunc. For better or for worse, they’re all I have.”_

_“Not all,” Dunc murmurs and means it. “I’m here too.”_

_He looks at her through unfocused, swollen eyes, before putting his head down against her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be,” he whispers._

_“Well, that’s just tough, then,” she says stubbornly. “Because I am. And I'm fucking hard to get rid of.”_

_He doesn’t answer. Just pulls her closer to him and weeps._

**~~~**

**“Cut!”** the AD cried.

Brienne’s arms dropped from Jaime’s shoulders, coming to rest awkwardly at her sides. She wanted to take a step back, but Jaime’s head was still buried in her neck, his arms still wrapped tightly around her.

Not quite sure what to do, Brienne stood as still as she could, giving Jaime a moment to pull himself out of the scene.

Emotional scenes were difficult. Coming out of emotional scenes and trying to pretend that everything was happy and normal, only to have to do it all over again when the cameras reset, was even more difficult. Brienne knew that first-hand.

Jaime took another long minute, before finally lifting his head from her shoulder and loosening the grip he had on her back.

He looked down.

The light fabric of Brienne’s shirt was wet, soaked through with tears and snot and spit and whatever else that had bled from Jaime during the scene. His eyes focused on the dark spot, as he stood, still not moving away.

“Are you OK?” Brienne’s voice cut through his thoughts, startling Jaime out of his daze.

_Shit._

_Hold it together, Lannister. It was only the first take of the scene, for fuck’s sake._

Jaime looked up at her, swiping the back of his hand under his nose roughly and clearing his throat in embarrassment.

Her blue eyes held some strange emotion -- understanding? sympathy? -- recognition, maybe. Whatever it was, it made Jaime uncomfortable. It was like she knew him -- understood him. And there was no way in hells someone like her could understand someone like him.

_Damn it!_

Suddenly, it didn’t matter that he had nailed that scene. Standing there, in front of Brienne, barely able to get a word out, all Jaime felt was embarrassment. He felt exposed -- stupid -- over-emotional. Like some kind of PMS-ing, attention-seeking drama queen.

It was just that it had hit too close to home. The scene. Mourning a parent. Hating a father. That worry that you were destined to follow in the old man’s footsteps. It was like the writers had access to Jaime’s deepest fears -- the dark, guilty thing he carried around inside of him.

No, the damn scene had completely thrown him.

He had thought he’d be fine. Was fine in rehearsal.

However, the minute that Brienne’s arms wrapped around him for real -- the minute she took him into her strong body and told him that he was OK, that he was good, that he could be a better man, Jaime was gone. Just fucking gone. And somehow, despite the fact that the AD had called cut ages ago, despite the fact that the cameras had stopped rolling, Jaime was still gone. And he didn’t know quite how to come back from it.

The director bounded over, a pleased expression on his face. From his tone and body language, it seemed like he was praising the two of them for their work. But Jaime didn’t really know. He didn’t hear the words coming out of the director’s mouth. He was entirely too busy counting his breaths in an attempt to stop himself from breaking down.

The director said something, gesturing to Brienne, who frowned anxiously in return and nodded her head.

“Um … I think we could both use a bit of a break before the next take,” she said, glancing worriedly at Jaime out of the corner of her eye.

She took a small step towards him, and Jaime looked up.

But it was still too much -- so he lowered his head again, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

When Jaime looked back again, the director had wandered off to check the camera set-up; and Brienne was still hovering, worried and unsettled.

“Are you OK?” She reached out a hand, only to pull it back, frowning.

“Fine,” Jaime croaked.

_Jesus, he was acting like an idiot._

He opened his mouth to explain that he had just been caught up in the scene, but closed it again, when the words wouldn’t come.

“Jaime?” Brienne’s voice was slightly hoarse, unsure. “If this is bringing up something. If you need anything, I can…”

Jaime shook his head, trying to forcibly wrench himself back to the present.

_What the hell was wrong with him? Why did this always happen with fucking Tarth?_

Only yesterday he had shot the scene when the Webber twins are called out of class and told the news of their father’s death.

_Fuck, he had managed to get through that scene just fine. But not this one! No, no, apparently he only embarrassed himself when Tarth was around._

“I’m fine,” Jaime rasped, trying to regain the smooth, asshole persona he defaulted to in times of stress.

“You, know, it’s OK to be sad -- to be upset,” Brienne said, giving him a slight smile of empathy. “I know I …”

“It’s not real, Brienne,” Jaime said, suddenly extremely annoyed at her concern and attempt at comradery. “My father didn’t really die.”

“No, no,” Brienne replied, embarrassed. “I know that. Sorry. It’s just ... you seemed overwhelmed.”

“I was acting,” Jaime said sourly. “Surely you’ve heard of it. Maybe even tried it a time or two?” He huffed out a frustrated breath, shaking his head at her.

Like clockwork, a flush filled her face. “Sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks blotchy and hot. “I was just worried.”

“Well worry about yourself,” he gritted out, turning to head to make-up.

He needed to get away from her -- far away from her -- if he wanted to regain his composure enough to do another take.

However, before he got too far, he turned and gave her a smirk. “And try not to hold me so tightly next time. I know you’re freakishly strong and everything, but I’d like to get through this shoot without cracking a rib.”

Brienne’s face closed, the concern for him instantly gone.

“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath; and Jaime smiled in reply.

**~~~~~~**

A million hours later, when the scene was finally shot to the director’s specifications, and Jaime was wrung out and dry from all of the crying, he slunk back to his dressing room feeling defeated.

He had done good work. They had done good work. But Jaime was fucking wrecked, as a result of it. Mentally, physically, emotionally -- fucking wrecked.

Brienne had been cool to him -- cold even -- after his attack. However, that hadn’t prevented her from giving her all in the scene. In fact, Jaime could still feel the imprint of her arms on his back, her hand stroking his hair.

_Damn her to all seven hells!_

The bloody woman had the power to reduce him to a sobbing, blubbering mess. And the whole thing pissed him off.

Oh, the director had been thrilled. Honestly, Jaime couldn’t remember a time when he had ever received such positive notes, such an enthusiastic reaction from the crew.

But the scene had unnerved him, just the same. Confused him -- made him feel like he wasn’t in control. It was that strange, witchy power that Brienne seemed to have over him when the camera was rolling. It brought out something in himself that he didn’t like. Didn’t like at all.

The door to his dressing room opened, and Jaime looked up.

He saw a flash of blonde hair, and for one horrifying moment, he thought that Brienne had let herself into his dressing room. His heart almost jumped out of his chest. But then his swollen eyes focused, and he realized that it was only Cersei.

Jaime groaned in relief. “You’re a fucking sight for sore eyes.”

“Yes, I figured,” Cersei purred, coming over and standing before him -- her hair thick and flaxen, not thin and pale white -- her eyes green and sharp, not soft and blue -- her skin glowing and golden, not pale and freckled.

“How was the rest of the day’s shooting with the jolly, white giant?” she quipped, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Cersei had been released from the set after shooting her brief scene with Brienne and hadn’t been around to witness Jaime’s breakdown.

“Exhausting. Totally fucking exhausting,” Jaime replied, bringing his hands to her slender waist, his fingers grasping lightly. He dipped his head, burying it in her neck and shoulders.“It took everything out of me. Every-fucking-thing.”

“Oh, my poor, poor baby,” Cersei cooed, tilting her head to kiss his temple. She smiled a sly smile, bringing his face back up to hers. “But don’t fret, darling,” she continued, angling his jaw to kiss his throat. “I know exactly how to put it right back into you.”

Jaime looked at her confused.

However, before he could ask for clarification, Cersei brought one hand down to his zipper, as she dropped softly to her knees.

“Shit,” Jaime muttered, closing his eyes and reaching out a hand to tangle in her hair.

He breathed in slowly, as she set to work. And soon, all thoughts of death and grief and frustration and confusion faded away; and Jaime finally felt like himself again.

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Jaime had been different since his return from Winterfell.

Quieter. More serious. More introspective.

It worried Tyrion.

At first, Tyrion had thought that maybe Jaime’s visit to Brienne had not gone well. But a quick phone call to the woman in question had immediately quelled those worries.

No, according to Brienne, Jaime had been quite a life saver, riding in to the rescue and taking charge, as if he had been doing the whole white knight thing all of his life. Apparently the two of them had also had the chance to “clear the air” about the past -- to “mend fences,” as much as those fences could be mended. They had come to an understanding; and, when Brienne had been cleared to return to work, they had left things on a positive note -- “friends or, at least, almost friends,” Brienne had said.

So it wasn’t the visit or any bad feelings between Jaime and Brienne that was causing Jaime’s somber mood. However, something definitely was.

Jaime seemed to be retreating back on himself a bit-- spending more time in his room again -- writing in that godsdamn journal of his at all hours of the night and day.

When Tyrion had asked him about it, Jaime had simply shrugged and said that the visit to Winterfell and too many nights spent on Brienne’s fucking concrete slab of a couch had tired him out; and he was simply trying to catch up on sleep. However, Tyrion knew that the excuse was bullshit.

It wasn’t until Jaime had left his journal out on the coffee table, in order to take a call from Cersei in privacy, that Tyrion had discovered the real reason for Jaime’s mood.

He shouldn’t have done it -- a good brother probably wouldn’t have -- but Tyrion had never labored under the delusion that he was winning any “Brother of the Year” awards. And so Tyrion had made sure that Jaime was safely tucked away in his bedroom and then had tried to decipher Jaime’s most recent journal entry.

It was the funeral -- or rather, the upcoming memorial service for the boy who had been killed in the car crash. Apparently it was bringing up all kinds of things for poor Jaime: guilt, shame, fear, anxiety, despair. It seemed that Jaime felt obligated to attend the service, to pay his respects, but he was deathly afraid that he was going to have a public breakdown and descend back into the darkness of depression.

Reading the journal, Tyrion had felt instantly guilty.

Poor, sweet, traumatized Jaime. Honestly, Tyrion should have guessed. He should have fucking guessed.

Hells, when Varys had first come up with the idea, Tyrion had told him that attending the service might not be a good idea -- might set Jaime back -- especially considering the fact that the Karstark family were not the biggest Lannister fans in the world.

However, Varys wouldn’t hear any argument. Jaime had to be there. He had to. He had to show his respect, honor the dead, keep his head up, and do his duty.

Well, duty or not, there was no damn way, Tyrion was going to let his brother face it alone -- not when he could finally be there for Jaime, for once in his life.

Tyrion waited two days before he broached the subject, so as not to make Jaime suspicious.

“I’d like to come to the service with you?”

“What?” Jaime swiveled his head away from the blandly neutral television program he was pretending to watch until he could make his escape back into the bedroom.

“The Karstark service. I know Varys wants you to be seen -- photographed. And I know I’m not the most photogenic person for you to have on your arm. But I’d like to be there, all the same.”

Jaime frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion admitted. “I guess I just feel like I should. I mean, I spent so many nights by your bedside praying to the gods, on the off chance that they would listen to the pleas of an ungrateful, debauched atheist and save you. I guess I feel like I should be there for the people whose prayers weren’t answered -- the people who didn’t get another chance with …”

“OK,” Jaime said quietly, cutting him off.

“OK?”

“OK. You can come.” Jaime rubbed his face, turning his head to blink at Tyrion; and Tyrion caught a glimpse of the exhausted relief in Jaime’s expression. “I’d like it very much if you did.”

Tyrion smiled a sad smile, his eyes suddenly tearing up. “I’d like it very much if I did too.”

**~~~~~~**

**Six Days Later:**

The church was huge. But then, it had to be in order to house all the people in attendance.

Gods, there were so many of them. Hundreds of them.

It was overwhelming.

Jaime was a public person. He was used to being in crowds -- used to working a room. However, he had spent the better part of the last seven months isolated in his flat or in Brienne’s hospital room or in her tiny trailer. And this was too much.

He looked out of the car window, as the black clad and uniformed figures milled about in the open-aired terrace of the church, wrapping their arms around themselves to try to ward off the cold, as they waited for the giant, church doors to open.

The day was bleak -- stormy, with high winds. And though the steel roof of the terrace kept the rain from the heads of the mourners, it did nothing to stop the winds from gusting the icy spray into the faces of those unlucky enough to be standing on the outside edge of the cover.

The press, trying to honor the gravity of the situation for once, contained themselves to a small corner of the shelter, setting up their cameras -- a few even going so far as to conduct low-toned, somber interviews with some of the more famous military and political faces.

Jaime swallowed, waiting in the anonymously black, town car for the church doors to open, before he tried to make his way through the crowd.

Despite all the time he had spent in therapy preparing for this, despite the fact that his brother was there to help him face the fray, despite all of his brave declarations to Brienne that he had to do this by himself, Jaime felt very much like he was waiting for his own execution.

Part of the problem was that Jaime hated funerals. He hadn’t been to many of them. But his mother’s funeral had been awful enough to leave a lasting impression.

Part of the problem was the crowd and the press and the hundreds and hundreds of people who were sure to see Jaime at his most vulnerable and pathetic.

And part of the problem was that Tyrion had waited until the very last moment to tell Jaime that there was a good chance that the two of them wouldn’t be the most welcome guests in attendance -- which was fucking, brand new information to Jaime.

Apparently, after the accident, General Karstark, overcome with grief for his son and feeling impotent and powerless, had lashed out in the blind hope that someone other than Torrhen was to blame for the tragedy. Initially, the general had demanded that the accident be investigated, asserting that Jaime, spoiled, pampered movie star that he was, must have had something to do with it.

When the authorities had assured Karstark that -- no, his son was the one who had crossed traffic and driven into Jaime head-on, the general had refused to believe it. He had gone so far as to hire a private investigator and then had tried to use his military connections to get the case reopened.

However, he had quickly changed his tune when Tywin’s team of lawyers had shown up threatening to sue for defamation -- warning the good general that it was only the Lannisters’ vast fortune and Jaime’s own good will that prevented the Karstark family from being sued for damages caused by their son’s recklessness. Karstark had changed his tune and surrendered his cause soon after that -- although he had still borne a grudge against Jaime.

For his part, Jaime, in the throes of pain medication and depression, had no idea of the drama raging around him.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Jaime had demanded, when Tyrion had confessed the situation to him on the car ride over.

“I thought you’d use it as an excuse not to go,” Tyrion had replied; and Jaime had fought very hard not to strangle his brother with his one good hand.

“It’s not an excuse. If the family doesn’t want me there, I shouldn’t be there,” Jaime insisted, relieved to finally have an out that wouldn’t make him look like a coward.

“Yes you should,” Tyrion had replied seriously. “You had nothing to do with the accident; and you want to pay your respects. It’s the right thing to do. Besides, when has a Lannister ever really been welcomed anywhere? Honestly, brother, we’ve weathered tougher crowds than this.” Tyrion had then reached out and grabbed Jaime’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly, before letting it go again.

And the casual intimacy of that act had shocked Jaime into agreeing.

So now he waited, his stomach in knots, to enter the church.

Well, at least he wasn’t facing this alone. Jaime sighed, looking at his brother, who was scrolling through his phone distractedly.

He hadn’t planned on having Tyrion with him.

No, Jaime had initially asked Cersei to come. Varys had concocted the brilliant idea of killing two birds with one stone -- having Jaime honor the fallen hero and also put to rest all those nasty infidelity rumors. However, in the end, Cersei had demurred. Funerals creeped her out, she said. Besides, she was shooting some really technically difficult scenes and couldn’t be away from the set for that long.

Of course, Cersei was still pissed as all hells at Jaime’s decision to fly out to Winterfell. And Jaime had the sinking suspicion that she was simply punishing him for his disobedience. She couldn’t have picked a more powerful punishment, though -- and Jaime had felt raw relief when Tyrion had offered to come and support him, in Cersei’s stead.

All too soon, the church doors opened, and the crowd started merging together in a cohesive mass towards the entrance to the nave.

When most of the black figures had been swallowed up by the double doors, Tyrion turned to Jaime. “Shall we, brother?”

Jaime wiped his sweaty palm on the pants of his black suit and nodded grimly.

The press had started packing up; but, as soon as they recognized Jaime, the cameras came to life again.

_“Mr. Lannister, how are you feeling?”_

_“Have you had a chance to speak to the family?”_

_“Jaime, is it true that the Karstarks tried to sue you for damages? Do they know you’re here?”_

_“Jaime, where’s Cersei? Are you two still together? What’s going on with Brienne Tarth?”_

Jaime felt his hand shaking, and he pressed it into the side of his leg to steady it. He wanted to ignore them -- to duck his head and run to the church. But Varys had pounded into Jaime’s brain just how important it was for Jaime to make a statement.

He turned to the closest camera and cleared his throat. “I’m not here to answer questions,” Jaime said, trying to steady his voice. “I’m here to honor a life lost too soon -- a military hero -- someone who will be missed greatly. I wish I could give Torrhen Karstark back his life. But I can’t. All I can do is honor his service. Honor his life. And encourage everyone not to take any of this,” he gestured to the world outside, “for granted. It’s a difficult lesson to learn, believe me. But it’s an important one.”

Jaime turned then, ignoring the questions lobbed at him, and followed Tyrion into the church.

**~~~~~~**

Inside the church was hot -- stuffy. Or maybe that was just Jaime.

It felt like every eye in the place was trained towards him -- the mourners, the press, the family.

General Karstark sat in the front pew, trying to console his wife. However, every now and then, he would turn back to glower at Jaime, his eyes furious in their misery.

The room smelled like a sickly combination of waxy, funeral flowers and some sort of dusty incense; and Jaime felt the air around him, thick and cloying, causing him to sweat in his expensive suit.

Tyrion was sitting next to him, shooting him encouraging glances. However, Tyrion was nervous too, his legs, not quite reaching the ground, jostling up and down, as he waited for the service to start.

When the church was filled to capacity, the organist stopped playing the sad string of dirges, and a slideshow clicked on.

Pictures of the deceased as a boy filled the screen. Torrhen playing in the garden, riding dirt bikes, climbing trees.

When the slideshow flashed to a picture of a young, gap-toothed Torrhen on Christmas morning, dressed in race car pajamas, a plastic sword in his hand, Jaime froze.

Suddenly, Jaime was back in his bedroom the day of his mother’s funeral, crying behind the bed, the sleeves of his own race car pajamas soggy with his tears and snot.

He stood up, his bad leg trembling with the effort.

“What are you doing?” Tyrion whispered worriedly.

“I can’t… I have to… air,” Jaime excused, pushing his way past the mourners sitting in his row.

He stumbled to the exit of the church, noticing vaguely the soft flashes of a camera.

_Shit. The vultures would just love this. Jaime Lannister the craven coward can’t even make it through the funeral. No doubt his picture would be in all the papers: “Lannister Leaves: Westeros’ Favorite Action Hero Can’t be Bothered to Honor Actual Hero.”_

He made his way past the ushers at the church doors and into the empty, outdoor foyer, breathing hard.

Somewhere along the way, tears had started falling from his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, his breath coming in gasps.

 _Damn it._ He was heading for a panic attack. Jaime knew the signs.

He fumbled in his pocket for his anxiety medication. He had already taken way too many of the little, white pills, but desperate times called for desperate measures, right? Only, where were they?

_Shit, where were his godsdamn pills? Hadn’t he put them in his coat pocket?_

In his mad fumbling, Jaime was vaguely aware of a figure in a dark coat approaching him.

_Gods, please don’t let it be a member of the press. Not now. Please. Please._

The figure got closer, and Jaime startled.

“Brienne?” he stuttered, not trusting his vision. He swiped his sleeve across his face, trying to staunch the tears, but only succeeded in smearing the wetness across his cheek.

 _Why was Brienne here? She was supposed to be in Winterfell._ _Gods, was he losing it?_

Maybe he really had OD-ed on the anxiety medication. _Was this some elaborate, Xanax-inspired hallucination?_

“You’re here,” he said finally.

“I am.”

“But I told you not to come.”

Brienne looked at him, her face severe. “Yes, but I make it a point never to listen to you.”

Jaime tried to smile at that but only succeeded in a tortured grimace. “Smart girl.”

The wind had picked up and was moving through her, haphazardly billowing her long jacket and the blond strands of her hair, whipping them around her almost violently. Her gaze was steady, determined. The scar on her face, untouched by any make-up, fierce.

She looked like a storm come to life.

She looked like some untamed warrior ready to go to battle.

She looked like the best thing Jaime had seen in a very long time.

“Tyrion called,” she explained. “Said you were having a difficult time. He thought it might be worth risking the PR nightmare.”

Jaime gestured behind him to the ornate wooden doors. “I just couldn’t… I had to…” His tongue felt like it was made of cement.

Brienne nodded at him, reaching out a steady hand to take his, her cold fingers wrapping around his palm.

Jaime looked at their joined hands and then back at her face. And then, without stopping to think it through, he launched himself into her arms, almost knocking her over in his rush.

He buried his face in her neck, his shoulders shaking, sobs coming in gasps.

In response, Brienne brought her arms around him tightly, grasping him to her, turning their bodies in order to take the brunt of the wind on her back.

_He was crumbling._

_Gods, he was falling to pieces all over the concrete and metal foyer of this goddamned church._

Jaime couldn’t control the sobs that came spilling out of him. It was as if all the guilt and anger and despair that had been seething just below the surface since the accident had finally been released in a torrent of dark pain.

 _“This is grief,”_ he thought to himself in a strange moment of lucidity, before burying his face once again into Brienne’s shoulder. _“This is why people go crazy from loss.”_

Jaime fought to control it but couldn’t. He could only hold on and ride it out.

Brienne didn’t say anything. She didn’t give him any trite expressions of understanding or of comfort. She didn’t tell him that everything was going to be OK or try to shush him. She just tightened her arms around him, sheltering him from the wind with her body.

When it was over, Jaime wasn’t sure how long it had been. It could have been minutes. It could have been days. But his sobs finally slowed, and his ragged breathing regulated.

He felt one of Brienne’s hands smoothing across his upper back, and he chanced a glance up at her face.

She was watching him with an expression of concern. However there was still that spark of cool determination under the sympathy.

He stepped back from her arms, wiping his raw, wrecked face on the sleeves of his suit. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

She looked at him with a softness he hadn’t seen before, bringing her hand up to his cheek. “Nothing to be sorry about. But you should go back in,” she said quietly. “They’ve probably already started the service.”

“No...” Jaime once again felt the panic rise up through his bloodstream.

_No way. No fucking way. He couldn’t go back in there. He was barely holding it together as it was. Hells, he wasn’t holding it together at all. She couldn’t expect him to go back inside with all the people and the press. She couldn’t._

He shook his head vehemently. “I can’t go back in there,” he insisted. “They don’t want me in there … his father... It was a bad idea in the first place. And it’s bringing everything back. Everything. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I’m not strong enough for... ” He trailed off.

Brienne studied him, watching an errant tear slip down his face, reaching out to brush it away with the pad of her thumb. “Oh, Jaime,” she said sympathetically. “You and I both know that’s total bullshit. You can do hard things. You do them every damn day.”

“What?” He looked up at her surprised.

_Had she not just witnessed his total meltdown? Had she not just held him while he fell apart in the foyer of a fucking church?_

“You heard me. You are absolutely strong enough to do this, Jaime.” She turned, glancing back towards the doors to the church. “What’s more, I think you need to do this.”

“Brienne, you don’t understand,” Jaime pleaded.

_He couldn’t go back in there. He just couldn’t do it._

“I tried. But it’s too much. The guilt …” He met her eyes, willing her to understand. “I can’t face them. His parents. I lived. I lived, and their son died. He was a hero, and I ...” He brought his hand to his face, pressing on his eyelids until they hurt.

Brienne grabbed his wrist, gently removing his hand. “Jaime, I need you to hear me,” she said, her voice serious. “You didn’t cause the accident. Torrhen Karstark did. For whatever reason, he drove into your lane. It’s awful and it's tragic, but it’s what happened.”

Jaime turned his face, not meeting her eyes. His tears were falling again, his nose running.

_Jesus, he was a fucking mess. A fucking mess. And he felt so guilty -- so damn guilty for living -- for being able to walk into the church when Torrhen Karstark, who was loved by so many, couldn’t._

_Why was he even here? Why was he here when Karstark wasn’t? Why was he here when his own mother wasn’t?_

“You’re still here, Jaime,” Brienne insisted, seemingly reading his thoughts. “You’re still here. That means something. I think you owe it to Torrhen Karstark to go pay your respects. I think you owe it to yourself.”

“But, I’m going to lose it…” Jaime looked at her, his eyes pleading. “Look at me, Brienne. I can barely hold it together.”

“I know, Jaime. I know. But it isn’t about you. This is about him. Let him be put to rest. Let him be honored. Let him be grieved.”

Jaime hung his head.

“Will you come with me?”

Brienne bit her lip worriedly. “Jaime, if I do, the press will…”

“I don’t care. It’s not about that, right?”

She gave him a sad smile and nodded. “Then, absolutely -- I will come with you.”

“OK,” Jaime said, after a moment of silence. “OK.”

Brienne reached forward to straighten Jaime’s collar and fix his hair, before softly pushing him towards the doors of the church.

Right before the entrance, Jaime felt Brienne’s hand on the small of his back, her fingers warm and strong.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice embarrassingly sounding like the voice of some scared, little kid. “Gods, Brienne. I’m so fucking glad that you’re here.”

“I’m here,” she replied simply. “I’m right here.”

**~~~~~~~**

The rest of the service went by in a blur.

There had been a few raised eyebrows when Brienne had trailed Jaime back into the church, threading her way past the mourners in the pew; but, for Jaime, the scrutiny had been worth it, just to have Brienne’s calm presence so close at hand.

As it was, he struggled to hold it all together. And when the boys choir from the local military academy rose as one to sing an a capella version of “Farewell, my Brother,” the struggle was lost.

Even though the song was incredibly sentimental, it was a particular favorite of Jaime’s father. And Jaime felt the tears build up and spill over, the minute the soloist, who couldn’t have been much older than seven, hit that crystalline High F.

Jaime tried to blink back the tears, bringing a shaking hand up to roughly rub under his eyes; but it was no use. It was no use at all.

In clear, sweet harmony, the boys sang of brothers parted, of a childhood lost to war and death, of the cold division of battle lines.

And Jaime cried.

He cried for the boy whose life had been cut short and for the father who was grieving his son.

He cried for the boy who, years ago, had attended his mother’s funeral, terrified of doing the wrong thing and letting his father down.

He cried for that boy in the race car pajamas with the toothless grin who would never experience another Christmas morning.

And he cried for that boy in the race car pajamas who had hidden in his room, his heart breaking, as his whole world fell apart.

Jaime cried for the boy he used to be before all of this -- before all of the mistakes made and the opportunities lost.

And he cried for the man he was today and the mistakes he still made and the opportunities that seemed so far out of reach.

He cried for everything he had lost. And the guilt that he felt for not appreciating everything he still had.

He cried until it seemed like he had no more tears to give -- until he was empty, drained, hollow.

And, through it all, Brienne held him. Her arm around his shoulders strong and sure and steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, gang -- this update almost didn’t happen. I don’t know if anyone had forest fires, evacuations, and massive power outages on their 2020 Apocalypse Bingo Card; but if you did, you’re freaking psychic. 2020 is just the year that keeps on giving, isn’t it? 
> 
> I’m still not home -- don’t know when I will be -- so I can’t promise you a return to the weekly updates quite yet. Life is way too out of control right now to make any solid promises. I will do the best that I can, though. There is a lot more story to tell, and, I assure you, I will tell it. 
> 
> On a happier note, thank you so much for all of the continued support and encouragement. You continually blow me away with your wonderful feedback. I appreciate you all and hope you are staying safe.


	17. Liability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pictures hit. Cersei is pissed. Jaime deals with the fallout.

**“Liability**

**Lorde**

**“They say, ‘You’re a little much for me,**   
**You’re a liability**   
**You’re a little much for me.’**   
**So they pull back, make other plans**   
**I understand, I’m a liability**   
**Get you wild, make you leave.”**

**~~~~~~**

**_Knights of the Seven Kingdoms_ : Season 4, Episode 19, “Die Rationem”**

_Arianne paces nervously in the cold, cavernous hall of the Council of the Seven._

_The doors to the Great Chamber are sealed tightly. The air around the entrance suffocatingly silent, belying the reverberating import of the deliberations currently held within._

_She is alone. But then, in this, she has always been alone -- always fought this battle alone._

_She closes her eyes to try to center her mind but opens them again when the memories prove to be too much. When the heat and blood and pulse of those memories press against her eyelids and rattle in her brain, reminding her that, despite her training, despite her dedication, despite her sacrifice, she has failed._

_In truth, the whole situation seems unbelievable -- a cruel jest at her expense._

_That she, Arianne of Dragonstone, first woman knight to serve in the Order, would be in this position is not only incredible, it is laughable._

_“Her?” she can imagine people saying, when the Council’s decision is made known. “Surely not her.”_

_But it is true. The very truth of it is why she is here -- almost pissing herself with nerves._

_She broke her oath._

_And as much as Brynden has tried to assume the bulk of the blame, Arianne knows that she entered into this murky territory willingly. And there is nothing else she can do now but face the consequences of her actions. It is the only honorable thing -- even if it was her more than questionable honor that has landed her in this position in the first place._

_All that she can hope for, at this juncture, is leniency from the Council._

_There is a small chance._

_Brynden went before the Council earlier. And although he was reprimanded harshly, his position in the Order was left intact -- his value to the realm outweighing his disobedience. The Tully name still carries heft, although its house had crumbled long ago -- its descendants scattered haphazardly across the Seven Kingdoms._

_Arianne can only hope for the same consideration from the Council, although she has no family name and legacy to smooth her way._

_For the first time in her life, Arianne is glad that her father has gone by the way of The Stranger. To see his daughter, his only living child, reach the heights of Knight of the Order of Seven only to fall so far -- so publicly, would be too much for any father to bear._

_A soft, sucking sound pulls Arianne from her maudlin thoughts, as the doors to the Chamber slide open, revealing a gray-clad squire, his face set like granite._

_He nods stiffly at Arianne and then turns on his heel and reenters the chamber._

_Exhaling a stale breath of apprehension, Arianne wipes her sweaty palms against her breeches and follows._

_The air inside the chamber seems ten degrees cooler than the hall; and Arianne wonders if the temperature has been set this way on purpose._

_The light too is different here -- eerie -- flat -- revealing in its shadowed dullness._

_Tamping down the instinct to fall back, Arianne, her head bowed in supplication, approaches the large table where the Council sits._

_She must be humble, quiet, non-confrontational, if she is to survive this._

_“Ser Arianne of Dragonstone.”_

_Arianne raises her head, turning her face towards the ancient voice._

_It is Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Order._

_“Yes, Lord Commander.”_

_“Ser Arianne, you are called before the Council to face accusations of impropriety not befitting a Knight of the Order of the Seven.”_

_The blush is instant; and Arianne curses her pale, freckled skin, not for the first time._

_“Yes, Lord Commander.”_

_Selmy shuffles the papers in front of him, squinting to read the scrawled script. “You are accused of breaking your oath of service and entering into an illicit relationship with another Knight of the Seven -- named herein as Ser Brynden Tully.”_

_“Yes, Lord Commander,” Arianne croaks, wishing very much that the floor would open up and swallow her so she wouldn’t have to face the disparaging eyes of the men she grew up idolizing._

_How could she have stumbled so badly? Tread so far from the path of righteousness?_

_It seems so out of character._

_She swore an oath -- a sacred oath to the Order and realm. Only to throw it away the moment that Brynden had looked at her -- looked at her like a man looks at a woman -- looked at her like Arianne never thought anyone would ever look at her._

_And all had been lost._

_Gods, she had worked so hard -- so damn hard to get here. Given up so much in the pursuit of this ambition. Bared herself to all of the arrows and the insults and the injustices so sharp they made her stomach sick -- only to risk it all. And for what?_

_A kiss?_

_An embrace?_

_A fuck?_

_But that is where the confusion lies, isn’t it? Because it wasn’t just a fuck. For all that Arianne is unschooled in the matters of the heart, she understands that._

_The room has fallen silent; and she chances a glance up to see the grizzled heads of The Council staring at her, as if waiting for her to speak._

_She clears her throat nervously. “I make no excuse, my lords,” she says, her voice sounding like she has been swallowing gravel. “I broke my oath. There is no defense or justification. I welcome the Council’s censure and punishment.”_

_One of the members huffs out a scathing laugh at that; and Arianne turns her head to where Ser Randyll Tarly sits, glaring at her with blatant distaste._

_“Lady Arianne. It is no secret that I was against your knighting from the beginning,” Tarly says, frowning sourly._ _His beard is yellow around his mouth, matching the color of his teeth -- his eyes small and muddy._ _“My colleagues argued for inclusion -- felt that the Order needed to reflect modern ideals. However, I knew that the moment we polluted the sanctity and tradition of the Order, all would be lost.”_

_He pauses to turn towards Ser Barristan. “A woman is too much of a distraction around men. A battlefield no place for distraction.”_

_He shifts his small gaze back to Arianne. “And you, my lady, have proven all of my fears warranted.”_

_“Yes, Commander,” Arianne grits out, keeping her gaze lowered so that Tarly can’t see the hot anger simmering inside her._

_“Tell me, Lady Arianne, do you find the oaths of Order so beneath you? Mere trifles that you can break whenever you feel the need or desire?”_

_“No, my lord,” Arianne rushes to say, appalled at the thought._

_“And yet you broke your oath at the first opportunity?”_

_“Not at the first opportunity,…” she tries to explain; but Tarly holds up a hand, instantly silencing her._

_“And yet even this is not the extent of your sin, Lady Arianne, is it?” He shakes his head at her. “No, it wasn’t enough for you to sully the sacred vow that you spoke before this Council. You sullied it with a subordinate, someone who trained under you.”_

_“All due respect, Commander, but Ser Brynden is no longer under my command. We are equals -- both knighted, both dedicated to the Order.”_

_“Hah,” Tarly grunts, spittle spraying across the table in front of him. “Dedicated to the Order? Do you jest, woman? Tell me, my lady, do you know what the small folk call you?”_

_Arianne’s face flames at both the misnomer and the accusation. “I am aware, Commander.”_

_“They call you The Blackfish’s Whore.”_

_“Yes, Commander. It is the gossip of idle and ignorant tongues.”_

_“You are not his whore, then?”_

_She looks up at him, her eyes brimming with fire. “I am no one’s whore, my lord.”_

_“Really? Have you not whored out your oath -- your position? Have you not tarnished everything that this Order stands for -- its very reputation -- all because of the weakness of your flesh? The weakness of a woman’s flesh, Lady Arianne?”_

_She wants to correct him, to grab him by the wispy hair on the back of his balding head and pound his face into the hard table, beat it into him that she has earned her title of Ser. She has earned it more than most. However, she knows that her actions now will directly influence her punishment, so she lowers her head again._

_“I have, my lord. I have misstepped and, for that, I am truly sorry. I accept and welcome the Council’s censure.”_

_“It seems, Ser Arianne, that the Council is split on your punishment,” Ser Barristan intones gravely. “Some are in favor of releasing you from your duties, arguing that the Order is no place for a woman of such tarnished reputation.” He looks to Tarly, who nods in agreement._

_Arianne swallows down yet another bitter injustice, lodging it deep in her belly with its brethren._

_“However, some feel that your service to the Order is far more valuable than the taint of your transgressions. They argue that it would be unjust to allow Ser Brynden to stay, while casting you out, when you both are guilty of the same sin.”_

_“Yes, Lord Commander.”_

_For the first time since she entered the room Arianne allows herself a small, glimmer of hope._

_“Ser Redwyne has suggested that you be allowed to prove yourself -- prove your importance to The Order by fulfilling a quest.”_

_Arianne nods stiffly, glancing at Redwyne out of the corner of her eye. There must be a catch. Redwyne is known as a staunch rule follower, willing to betray his brothers in arms, if they step out of line._

_“Yes, Lord Commander,” she says nervously._

_“Ser Arianne,” Ser Redwyne says gravely. “As you well know, since the coming of Winter, lawlessness has run rampant in the Seven Kingdoms. It is particularly savage in the quadrants north of The Gift, where the Burned Men use terror and violence to control the Shadowlands.”_

_Arianne stands frozen. Surely not. They would not send her …_

_“Ser Arianne it is the ruling of this Council that you will lead a small battalion Beyond the Wall and into the Shadowland territories of The Burned Men. There you will fight to stop the savagery that has gone too long unchecked and bring the Order of the Seven to the chaos that currently reigns._

_“You may have your choice of men and ships,” Ser Barristan adds, almost as an afterthought -- like the promise of a last meal before an execution. “If you succeed in this quest, you will prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, your place here in The Order. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, Lord Commander,” Arianne whispers, barely comprehending anything after “Burned Men.”_

_“You are dismissed, then. May the Gods bless you on your quest, Ser Arianne. May they keep you on the path of the righteous and grant you victory against all who oppose you.”_

**_~~~~~~_ **

_Brynden is waiting for her. He is leaning against the wall in the passage to the docking bay, his rusty hair standing on end where he has mussed it in his nervousness -- beautiful, even in his agitation and worry._

_Arianne clears her throat; and Brynden’s blue eyes dart up to meet hers._

_He lets out a breath, looking her over, as if searching for battle wounds. “You survived then.”_

_“For now,” she says grimly, not letting her eyes rest on him for too long._

_Brynden looks stricken. He takes a tentative step forward. “Gods, Ari. I am so sorry that your association with me has landed you in this mess -- brought so much shame onto you. I never meant for …”_

_“I am ashamed that I broke my oath, Ser,” she cuts him off. She cannot hear this -- cannot bear to hear his guilt. His regret at what they have done. “But I am not ashamed of my association with you.”_

_“No, but you’re penalized for it,” he mutters bitterly._

_She sighs, the heaviness of this constant burden she carries with her suddenly too great. “It is because I am a woman in a man’s role. It is just the way of the world.”_

_“Well, it’s a shit way.”_

_“It’s a shit world.” Her voice is resigned._

_He takes another small step forward. “Was it very bad? Ari, what did the Council ...”_

_“They’re sending me out Beyond the Wall.”_

_“The Burned Men?” Brynden’s expression is caught somewhere between incomprehension and horror. “Fuck, Arianne. No one comes back from Beyond the Wall. No one.”_

_“Well, they’ve asked me to pull together a few unlucky souls and go see what I can do. Prove myself -- my place in The Order.”_

_“It’s an impossible mission! You will die!”_

_She frowns at him. “Your optimism in my abilities, Ser, is touching.”_

_“It has nothing to do with your abilities, godsdamn it!” he says, shaking his head in vehemence._

_Suddenly, he breaks off, biting his lip in thought. “You are allowed to choose your men? Your troops?”_

_“Yes,” Arianne replies flatly. “They are giving me my pick of men and ships. I suppose it cannot seem so obvious that they have sentenced me to death.”_

_Brynden nods gravely. “Then, I’m going with you.”_

_“Brynden.” She hurries to correct herself, “Ser Brynden, the reason that they are sending me away is to prevent us from interacting. They wish to put distance between us. To make me an example.”_

_“I don’t give a good goddamn fuck for their wishes,” he says furiously. “I will sign an oath, pledge lifelong celibacy. Let the fucking Council set the terms, I will agree to them.”_

_He steps forward, frowning when she steps back a pace._

_“I swear to the gods, Arianne, I will not touch you. But I will not abandon you to this. I refuse to sit by and send you to your death alone.”_

_Arianne is suddenly overcome with a strange emotion that has her blinking back tears. She must not let herself feel. Emotions are what got her into this impossible snare in the first place._

_“You are a fool.”_

_“Let me be a fool, then,” he grits out, his blue eyes ablaze._

_Suddenly, Arianne realizes that she only has to say the word -- only has to step forward, and their oaths would be meaningless yet again._

_It is too powerful, this pull between them. More powerful than anything she has experienced in her short, twenty-odd years -- more powerful than all of the will and grit and honor she possesses. And this realization both shames and exhilarates her._

_“Better a fool than a coward,” Brynden continues, his eyes daring her to argue. “Better to lose my life than to lose …” He colors and trails off. He knows they cannot go there. It is too dangerous. And he won’t lead her into any more danger. He will only follow where she goes._

_Arianne nods stiffly in agreement and turns to make her way to the docking bay, before the conversation can go further. However, Brynden reaches out a hand, grasping her elbow, his fingers searing her skin through the leather of her jerkin._

_“I am not sorry, my lady,” he says hoarsely, trying to infuse his words with everything that he cannot say. “Even if it leads to our deaths -- which it most certainly will. I cannot be sorry. Gods help me, I cannot. I hope you know that.”_

_She looks down to his hand, where they are joined, before raising her head to meet his eyes. “I know,” she whispers miserably and then continues on her way._

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

The pictures were worse than Jaime thought they would be.

And there were so fucking many of them.

Jaime embracing Brienne in the church foyer, his head buried in the long curve of her neck. Jaime sitting in the church, his body loosely sprawled over Brienne’s lap, as he cried on her shoulder, her hand in his hair. Jaime clinging to Brienne’s arm like a lost child, as she led him towards the car, after the service.

It was a fucking nightmare of epic proportions -- Jaime’s carefully crafted public statement completely overshadowed by the lurid headlines of smarmy infidelity.

Cersei was, of course, livid.

She had called Jaime the moment the pics had hit the internet, screaming at him in rage and betrayal. “How could he? How dare he? Was he so fucking stupid that he hadn’t even considered the fallout -- hadn’t even considered how much his actions would fuck everything up?”

Jaime had been contrite at first. And then he had been angry. And then he had just been numb.

He had tried to explain to Cersei the trauma of the situation. Tried to explain about his mother and the accident and the pain and the guilt that were now his constant companions; but she wouldn’t listen. He had tried to remind Cersei that he had asked her to come to the damn funeral, in the first place -- begged her to come, actually. However, she had simply sworn at him and then accused him of trying to make her feel bad -- trying to deflect the blame onto her. He had tried to make her see -- sworn until he was blue in the face that nothing was going on with Brienne -NOTHING. But, although Cersei seemed to believe him in that, at least, it certainly didn’t prevent her from berating him for his stupidity -- berating him for not anticipating the consequences of his actions -- berating him for always putting himself before her.

And that was when Jaime had stopped trying to explain. Stopped trying to fix it. Stopped thinking that it could, in fact, be fixed.

When Cersei had suggested flying out to King’s Landing to do some combined damage control, Jaime had agreed, knowing full well that there was no possible way to control the damage. Oh no, the damage had been done. It had been done far before the funeral, although he was just now realizing the extent of it.

And now she was here, in the living room of his flat, looking beautiful and perfect and golden and so, so much like him; and all Jaime felt was an empty hollowness -- as if he had spent all of his money on something disappointing and had nothing to show for it.

Cersei scrolled through her phone frowning. “Gods, the woman is decidedly unphotogenic, isn’t she?” she remarked nastily. “I really can’t begin to understand how she has a career in this business.”

Jaime sat silently, sipping his whiskey. It was barely afternoon, and he felt sick to his stomach, but Jaime hadn’t protested when Cersei had suggested a cocktail. The less sober he was for this conversation, the better.

“You make an absolutely ridiculous couple,” Cersei continued. “How anyone could think that you and she …”

“Cersei, can we drop it?” Jaime’s voice was sharper than he meant it to be, and Cersei looked over to him.

“Oh, so sorry, love,” she apologized, an edge to her voice. “Is this making you uncomfortable? Hmm… Imagine how uncomfortable it is to be the ‘jilted lover’ in this scenario, passed over for someone new.”

“I don’t have to imagine.” Jaime got up, setting his empty glass on the bar and walking to the window to gaze out at the skyline.

“And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”

Jaime shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, no, please, do tell, my darling. It sounds like you are insinuating something.”

Jaime sighed and turned to face her. He was much too tired for this bullshit. “Look, Cers. You and I both know that there’s nothing going on with Brienne. Those pictures don’t prove shit. And if we are talking pictures, what about all of those pictures of you and Kettleblack? I find it just a tad hypocritical that you are angry at me for something that you are guilty of, yourself.”

“Guilty of?” Her voice was cold, dangerous.

She rose and crossed the room, coming to a stop in front of him. “Osmund Kettleblack is my colleague and friend, Jaime,” she said, enunciating each world slowly.

“Brienne is my colleague and friend, Cersei,” he said back, mimicking her pattern of speech.

“It’s not the same Jaime, and you know it.” She shook her head, reaching out a hand to grab his good arm, her fingers pressing tightly. “Honestly, love, do you know how damaging those pictures of the two of you are to my reputation? I’m a fucking laughingstock. To have been cheated on by that beast.”

“Don’t call her a beast, Cersei.” His voice was quiet but firm.

Cersei looked at him in amazement. “Whyever not? You had no problem with it before -- back on _Westerosi_.”

“Yeah, well, I was an asshole back then, Cersei.”

“Are you saying that I’m an asshole?”

Jaime didn’t answer. Just raised his eyebrows and cocked his head knowingly.

The slap took him by surprise; and he reeled back, his stump instinctively coming up to shield his face.

Cersei looked at him in shock, before walking back to the couch and slowly sitting down.

After a few, quiet moments, she spoke. “Forgive me, my love. I’m just upset at the situation. My nerves are shot to hell.”

Jaime nodded, his face still smarting.

“But, it’s doing no good picking at each other, darling. What we need to do, I think,” she continued, “is to call Varys. The old spider will know just what to do to mitigate the damage. Get everything back on track.”

She picked up her phone from the coffee table and began scrolling through her contacts.

“Don’t,” Jaime said softly.

“Did you want to call him, instead? He is your agent.”

“No.” Jaime shook his head. “I don’t want to call him.”

He breathed out wearily, steadying himself. “It’s not working Cers. This. Us. It’s just not working anymore.”

She blinked at him in incomprehension; but he continued, not giving her a chance to protest. “You’ve stopped loving me. Or maybe you never really loved me, and I just didn’t notice, because I loved you enough for the both of us. But I can’t do it any longer. I don’t want to do it any longer.”

“Jaime, I …”

“Look, I know, OK? I know you aren’t being faithful. I know about you and Kettleblack. It’s not just pictures, Cers. He’s not just your friend.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Jaime. There is absolutely nothing going on …”

“You don’t need to explain,” he cut her off. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter.”

Jaime shook his head sadly. “You know, it’s pretty ironic. For years I worried about you cheating on me. For years, I heard the whispers and the rumors and refused to even entertain them -- refused to let my mind go there -- because the very thought of someone else having you was unbearable. That asshole Lancel? Euron Greyjoy? That stupid boy on your last set who was mooning after you? I couldn’t even entertain that those rumors had any truth to them. You were mine. And I was yours. No one else fucking mattered. But ever since this.” He held up his stump. “Since the accident, I’ve come to realize that it can’t be that way. You aren’t mine, Cersei. You’ve never been. And I’m not yours. I can’t be who you want me to me. It’s no use.”

“Who I want you to be?” Cersei said lightly, trying to smile. “Really, darling, you are making no sense. You are Jaime Lannister -- that’s who I want you to be.”

“But I’m not. I’m not. I haven’t been Jaime Lannister for a very long time.”

Jaime moved back to the window, looking down at the tiny figures on the street below -- normal people, living their normal lives.

“I think,” he said, turning back to face her. “I think it’s time for me to start figuring out who I really am. Me -- not Jaime Lannister, golden boy and movie star, boyfriend of Cersei Baratheon, heir to the Lannister fortune, Westeros’ Most Eligible Bachelor. I have to figure out who I am without all of that bullshit. Because that stuff isn’t real, Cers. And it all can be gone in a blink of an eye. Believe me, I know.”

Cersei let out a huff of irritation. “Christ, that bloody cow has you brainwashed, doesn’t she?”

“Cersei, don't.”

“I bet she’s just thrilled to think that she has a chance with you now. Now that you’re maimed and depressed and not thinking clearly. Christ, she must be over the moon to think that all of those years of pathetic pining are finally paying dividends.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Cersei.”

“Of course, I do, darling. It’s as plain as day. It’s the reason why you two worked as a couple on the show, even though you looked fucking ridiculous together. It was because Brienne didn’t have to act at all. She wanted you. Gods, the great oaf must be overjoyed thinking that she finally has a chance to play out all those love scenes for real this time. What a tricky little minx.” Cersei smirked in admiration. “I have to hand it to her, though. Her long game is truly impressive.”

“There is no game,” Jaime protested, tiredly. He turned his gaze back to the window, ignoring Cersei’s outraged expression. “You don’t get it, because you treat every goddamn moment like it’s a game to be won. But not everyone has an angle -- not everyone is out to screw you over. Brienne wants nothing from me ... other than my respect, which I spent way too long not giving her, because I somehow believed that she was the enemy. But she wasn’t. She never was.”

Jaime ran a hand down his face, and turned back to Cersei. “I know that it’s hard to believe, Cers, but Brienne doesn’t care who I am or what I’ve accomplished or how best to use me in a clever photo op to fool the press. She’s just there -- whenever I need her -- no questions asked, no debt to pay or quid pro quo. Hells, she’s had absolutely to reason to be, but she’s been with me in the fucking trenches this year -- knee deep in all the blood and grief and vomit -- when I was a crying, craven mess and couldn’t stand the very sight of myself. She’s not playing me. In fact, she may be the only goddamn person in my life who’s not.”

Half way through Jaime’s explanation, Cersei had stilled. And she sat now, surveying him calculatingly, her eyes narrowing, as if she were hunting a particularly elusive prey.

“Oh!,” she said slowly, a triumphant smile unfurling. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“What?” Jaime looked at her puzzled.

“It’s you. It’s not her. You’re the one pining?”

Jaime startled, his mouth falling open.

However, Cersei only tsked through her teeth, shaking her head at him in disappointment. “Really, how pathetic, Jaime. One would think, after all these years, that you’d know better.” She paused, looking him up and down, her gaze finally falling to his stump. “Honestly, darling, do you really think she’ll have you?”

“The hand doesn’t bother her.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could call them back.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Why hadn’t he denied it? Why hadn’t he argued that, of course, he wasn’t pining._ _The very thought was ridiculous._

But it was too late, Cersei had the scent now. She smiled ferally, narrowing in for the kill.

“Oh, I’m not talking about the hand, my love. The hand isn’t the only disfigured part of you.”

She laughed softly, coming over to join him again at the window, looking out at the steel and stone buildings of King’s Landing.

“I think it’s quite precious that you think you’ve changed, Jaime. That you think you’re no longer the cruel, selfish man that you were.” She turned to face him. “Tell me, if you hadn’t lost the hand -- hadn’t had the accident, would you have even given Brienne another thought? The girl you were so awful to all those years ago?”

Cersei exhaled softly, reaching a hand up to smooth a lock of hair that had fallen over Jaime’s eye. “No -- I think not. You’d still be the same old Jaime Lannister, striding in and taking what you want, reveling in the fact that your money and fame and looks have elevated you above the fray. Have allowed you to do what you please, without consequence.”

“I’m not that stupid, asshole kid I was back on _Westerosi_ ,” Jaime protested grimly, moving his face out of her reach. “Despite what you believe -- despite what you think I am -- what you want me to be, I’m not him any more, Cers. And if you had been around at all this past year, you may have noticed it way before now.”

Cersei smiled a sad smile. “What’s that saying about leopards and spots? Remind me again how it goes, my love.”

“Fucking hell, Cersei,” Jaime muttered. “This is why I can’t do this anymore. You don’t want me. You want who you think I am -- who you’ve tried to mold me into. And I’m not him. I can’t be him. I don’t think I ever truly was him -- although, Gods help me, I tried to be for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jaime.” Cersei’s smile dropped, and she looked at him with cold disapproval. “There is nothing so distasteful as playing the victim card. It’s beneath you.” She frowned at him in disgust. “I wasn’t to blame for your behavior. As much as you want to believe that it was me -- that it was my influence that caused you to act the way you did -- to treat Brienne the way you did -- you chose that yourself, my love. You chose to treat her like shit. For five years, you chose it.”

Jaime swallowed roughly, his face heating at her accusation.

“And what’s so sad is that you think you’ve changed. That you’ve crashed your car and become this better person. But really, you’re just the same person, minus a hand and a sense of direction.” She looked at his stump and grimaced.

“You’re just using her, Jaime, to feel better about yourself -- to prove that you still have worth, now that your value in the industry has fallen so low. And Brienne will realize that, if she hasn’t already. Say what you will about the ridiculous cow, but she’s an honorable person. And you, my love, are not. Brienne won’t want you. Why would she ever want you? A person that’s been so cruel and awful to her? A person so desperate for redemption that he forces himself onto people, regardless of their feelings towards him?”

Jaime blinked, his eyes smarting with the effort to stay calm.

“I think we’re done here, Cersei. You need to leave.” Somehow he managed to keep his voice low, his expression even.

Cersei smiled sharply, knowing full well that her arrow had hit its mark. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want.”

She walked back to the couch to gather her coat and purse, before coming to stand in front of him once more.

“Good luck, Jaime. I do wish you well, despite everything. You may have made me out to be the villain in this little, made-up fairy tale of yours, but I care about you. And I do so hate to see you hurt.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek, her lips cool against his hot skin. “And believe me, my love, it will hurt. I promise you that.”

And then she was gone, a cloud of her spicy perfume and the raw sting of her words the only things lingering.

**~~~~~~**

**Four Days Later:**

Four days later, Jaime found himself in Dr. Elder’s office, recounting all the sordid details of his break-up with Cersei.

Amazingly, he found that he could relate the tale quite calmly.

It was strange, really -- that fifteen years of passion and intensity, fifteen years of devotion and fighting and fucking could end with so little fanfare.

But it had.

One moment, Cersei had been calling him ‘darling’ and planning their next steps as a couple. The next she was gone. Gone from his life completely.

It was the damnedest thing. And Jaime couldn’t help to be thrown by the anticlimax of it all.

However, that was not to say that Jaime was fine. No, he very much wasn’t fine.

At times, he mourned Cersei desperately, felt her phantom presence like his missing hand -- the memory both sweet and achingly painful.

And then, of course, there was her accusation, which seemed to be indelibly printed onto his brain, no matter how much he tried to rationalize.

Although Jaime had put up a good front, Cersei’s words had shaken him to the core. It was like she had held up a mirror to him, revealed to him his true self. And now that he had seen it, he couldn’t unsee it or pretend it wasn’t there.

Oh, his logical mind knew that she had just been lashing out -- trying to wound to gain the higher ground. But, the rest of him -- that base, insecure, shriveled part of him that constantly jockeyed for position and power in his head had finally felt seen. _‘The fucking jig is up,’_ it cried. _‘Jaime Lannister is a terrible person. No use pretending anymore.’_

“She said I was using Brienne.”

Jaime kept his eyes focused on the window in front of him, purposely not looking at Elder’s reaction. “Said I was trying to push myself on Brienne to make me feel significant or changed or something, since I’ve lost everything else.”

“Are you?”

Jaime startled at Elder’s blunt question. “No… at least, I don’t think so.” He turned back to the window biting his lip. The sun was setting against a hazy sky, the clouds a dull, nondescript gray.

“But what if Brienne doesn’t… What if she doesn’t see it that way?” Jaime continued. “What if she feels obligated to hang around with me because she feels sorry for me? I mean, let’s be real here, I’m the one always needing her. Always calling her. Always pushing myself on her. She doesn’t need me.”

“Didn’t you take care of Brienne after her accident?”

Jaime shrugged. “Yeah. But she didn’t ask me to. I just flew there and pushed myself on her yet again.”

“So Brienne didn’t get anything out of that interaction?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when you ran to her side to take care of her are you saying that you ... didn’t? That she took care of you instead?”

“No.” Jaime shook his head. “She was in no state to take care of me. Totally out of it.”

“So you helped her, then?”

“Yeah.”

“And she appreciated this help?”

“That’s what she said.”

“So why do you doubt it now -- the idea that she may have benefited from her relationship with you? That she may have, in fact, needed you?”

Jaime sighed tiredly. “It’s just that Cersei made me realize how very one-way this whole thing with Brienne is. Made me see that I’m not … I don’t know, as good a person as Brienne is and that she’s going to wise up to that and …” he trailed off uncertainly.

“Tell me, Jaime, has Cersei been privy to any of your interactions with Brienne since the accident?”

“Gods, no!” Jaime exclaimed, appalled. “She would have blown a gasket.”

“So all Cersei really knows is how you interacted with Brienne ten years ago?”

“Yeah. But she thinks that’s the real me. She thinks I’m just trying to play the part of ‘reformed penitent,’ ‘born again do gooder’ because that’s the only available role to me right now.”

“All right. And what do you think? Are you playing a role?”

“No. Well, I didn’t think so before but… maybe? It’s difficult to know. I’ve literally been trying to be someone I’m not for most of my life.”

“Explain that.”

“Well, hell, I tried to be the son that my father expected, tried to be that untouchable bastard at boarding school to prevent getting my ass kicked, tried to be the person that Cersei could love, the action hero people expected, the bigger-than- life celebrity." He laughed sardonically. "Jaime Lannister -- man of a thousand fucking faces. Who will he be today? Honestly, I don’t even know who the real me is anymore.”

“And this new role that you say you are playing, it’s for Brienne?”

“I guess? I don’t know, really.”

“So then tell me about this role. What does it demand? What does Brienne demand?”

Jaime inhaled. “Not a lot, really. That I treat her with respect. That I acknowledge the bad things I’ve done. That I try to be better.”

“And that’s not the real you -- to treat people with kindness -- to admit fault when you hurt someone?”

“It hasn’t been me in the past. Not regularly, at least.”

“Hmm… I see,” Elder mused, jotting down something in his notebook.

He looked up again at Jaime. “All right then. So let’s assume that you are playing a role. How does playing it make you feel?”

“How does it make me feel?”

“Yes. What emotions are associated with playing this role of ‘good person’?”

Jaime stared out of the window, silent for a long moment. “Hope, maybe?...Terror?”

“Explain.”

“I want to be that guy… the better man, you know. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t like being an asshole. Sometimes it’s just the path of least resistance. If people expect the worst from you, it’s easy to live up to their expectations. I learned that early on.”

“All right. And why is it terrifying?”

“Because of what we’re talking about right now. Say that Cersei’s right, and it is just another role I’m trying to play. What if I end up hurting people? Let them down, you know? Let myself down?”

“Well, Jaime, I think maybe you just answered your own question, there.” Dr. Elder leaned forward in his chair. “It seems to me that, if this were really just a role -- if you were just ‘playing’ the redemption arc to try to make yourself feel better -- you wouldn’t be concerned at all about letting anyone down or hurting other people.”

Jaime blinked in surprise.

“Let me ask you this. Could it be possible that Cersei has this wrong? That she is wrong about you and your motivations? That perhaps you _have_ changed in response to everything that you’ve been through? That you are a better man than you were? You? Jaime? Your authentic self?”

“I don’t think…” Jaime broke off.

“Jaime, let’s go back for a moment to the time right after the crash, when you were trying to reconcile yourself to what had happened -- to the thought of the impending amputation. There in the dark, in the pain and the fear, you picked up the phone, and you called Brienne. Not Cersei. Not your girlfriend. You called someone you hadn’t spoken to in ten years -- someone whom you claimed to not like. Why?”

Jaime sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. We’ve been over this. Honestly, this horse was thoroughly beaten to death months ago.”

“Could it be,” Dr. Elder interrupted. “Could it be that Cersei couldn’t give you what you needed in that moment? Couldn’t give you what Brienne could give you -- understanding, comfort, hope maybe?”

“Maybe.” Jaime’s voice was hoarse, his expression stricken.

“Could we take it even a step farther and say that there is a possibility that you called Brienne because you recognized something in her -- something that you needed to find in yourself again?”

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here, Elder,” Jaime said angrily. “I don’t know why I called Brienne. I was just sitting there in the dark, and I saw the plant that she sent, and I just thought...Fuck, I don’t know what I thought. She was always there, you know? Steady. Understanding, even when she had no damn reason to be… even when I was a fucking asshole to her. And I just needed …”

“You needed someone to be there for you.”

Jaime nodded, despondently.

“Someone to remind you that you were worth being there for.”

Jaime stared out of the window at the hazy gloaming, willing himself not to cry. Not to fucking cry yet again.

“Jaime, that’s not a weakness. You know that, don’t you?” Elder said softly, noticing Jaime’s struggle for composure. “That’s just part of being human. We all need to know that someone will come when we call -- will be there for us. Will see us at our worst and still come, because they know that our worst isn’t really all we’re capable of.”

Jaime shook his head, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling to try and staunch the tears before they could fall.

“Now, you know better than I do, but it seems to me that the reason that Brienne has been here for you this past year -- the reason that she picked up your call, when she had no cause to -- the reason she has given you the opportunity to apologize and make amends -- is because she sees something in you. To use your analogy, she sees the real you beneath all of these roles you try to play.”

“But I…”

“And, it also seems to me that, at an unconscious level, you recognize that. That’s why you called her. That’s why you’ve fought so hard to keep her in your life. That’s why, without a second thought, you flew to Winterfell to help her. Those actions speak to the true Jaime Lannister -- not Cersei, not your father, not your guilt or your grief of despair. Don’t get lost in that other noise, Jaime. It signifies nothing.”

Jaime shrugged, watching out the window as the lights suddenly came on in the building across the street.

Finally, when the silence became too loaded, Jaime spoke, his voice wet. “She thinks I have feelings for her?”

“Pardon?”

“Cersei. She thinks that I have feelings for Brienne. That I’m pining for her.”

“Are you?”

“What?” Jaime’s head swiveled towards Elder. “Of course not. Brienne would totally freak-out.”

“That’s not, in fact, what I asked, Jaime.”

“Look, you just told me, not two minutes ago, not to listen to Cersei. Now you’re agreeing with her?”

“I’m not agreeing with anyone, Jaime. You are the one who brought up Cersei’s comment, so it must have resonated with you. I am just asking why.”

“I’m not pining for Brienne,” Jaime said flatly. “Not at all.”

“All right. And what does Brienne think about your break-up with Cersei?”

“I haven’t told her.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Jaime said, suddenly angry. “I don’t tell her everything, you know. Go running to her with every stupid problem.”

“Jaime, it’s entirely your business. You don’t have to tell Brienne about the break-up, if you don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to,” Jaime replied, frustrated. “Of course I’m going to. I just haven’t found the right time yet. It’s just ... strange.”

“Why strange?”

“I don’t know. Brienne didn’t like Cersei.”

“Ah… and you’re afraid she will be happy about the break-up and invalidate what you’re feeling?”

Jaime shook his head. “No. That’s not it.” He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I just … I guess I just haven’t been alone in a very long time.”

“And Brienne won’t understand that?”

“No, no, Brienne knows what it’s like to be alone. She knows better than most. I’ve just … Shit, it sounds totally stupid, but I guess I’ve never been alone around Brienne before.”

Dr. Elder gave him a puzzled look. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“There’s always been Cersei between us, you know. That constant. And I guess I might just be a little unsure about what it will be like without her … Cersei…between us, I mean.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier, though? If Brienne and Cersei didn’t get along?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jaime said sheepishly, looking out the window. “You’re right, of course.”

“Are you afraid that Brienne might want something more now that you are single and unattached?”

“No!” Jaime cried, looking at Elder in disbelief. “She’d never.”

“Never?”

“Never,” Jaime repeated firmly.

“All right. Then are you afraid that you might want something more now?”

“No. I don’t have a death wish.” Jaime sighed. “Look, it’s no big deal. I’ll tell Brienne about the break-up tonight. Like you say, she’ll probably be thrilled.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes,” Jaime admitted tiredly, “but you certainly implied it.”

“Jaime, I rarely imply anything,” Dr. Elder said, giving him a bland smile. “If I believe something, I tend to say it.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “All right. Fine. Then you _don’t_ think Brienne will be thrilled about the break-up?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Elder replied placidly. “And it doesn’t matter what Brienne thinks. It only matters what you think.”

Jaime sighed deeply, sitting back against the couch and closing his eyes. “Elder, has anyone ever told you that you’re as irritating as all hell to talk to?”

Dr. Elder gave an uncharacteristic guffaw, leaning back in his chair and laughing in real delight. “Far too many times to count, my boy. Far too many times to count.”

**~~~~~~**

**Two Days Later:**

Jaime actually didn’t end up speaking to Brienne until two days later.

He had called, but his call had gone to voicemail.

And then Brienne had called back the next day. However, Jaime had been in the middle of a particularly bad bout of self-loathing and apathy, and so he had let her call go unanswered.

He had finally called her again the next evening; and that time, she had picked up.

“Well, if it isn’t Jaime Lannister,” she said into the phone, her voice almost fond. “We finally speak. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“Yeah. Uh … sorry, I didn’t pick up the other night, I had …”

“No worries,” Brienne cut him off, waving away his excuse. “Things are crazy. I get it. They are totally nuts around here too. Three more weeks until the season wraps. I hardly have a moment to myself.” Her voice was muffled and thick, as if she were chewing something tough.

For some reason that thought annoyed Jaime to all hells. “Am I keeping you from your dinner, Tarth?”

“No. Sorry. I’m just famished. Incredibly long day today.” She chewed and swallowed roughly, taking a big gulp of something to wash it down. “There. All good.”

“Are you sure?” Jaime snarked sourly. “I wouldn’t want to stand between you and your dinner. I’ve already lost a hand.”

“You’re fine,” she said placidly. “So how are you? What have you been up to?”

Irrationally, Jaime’s hand tightened on his phone, and his nerves kicked in. “Nothing much,” he deflected. “You?”

“Well, you know me. Far too many social obligations for a girl to keep straight,” Brienne quipped. “Actually, the boys and I did go out one night last weekend, if you can believe it. We found a new pub -- total dive bar with pool tables and darts and decent beer, even. Much too decent, actually. We ended up getting a bit hammered -- made all kinds of friends.”

“Terrific,” Jaime said flatly.

_Christ, who the fuck cared about a stupid night out with the boys when there were far more important things to talk about like his bloody break-up and who the fuck he was and what the hells he was supposed to do now?_

“Robb and I ended up hustling a bunch of the regulars,” Brienne continued. “Won a pretty sweet pot of money.” She laughed. “Although, I don’t think the regulars are currently big fans of us.”

“Is anyone a big fan of Stark?” Jaime muttered, more than a little put out.

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Brienne protested, her voice warm. “They love him up here. He’s got that whole Stark legacy thing going for him. And, of course, it does help that he has all the girls wrapped around his little finger.”

“Really? Well, I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Funny,” Brienne mused. “That’s exactly what he said about you, when I told him how insanely popular you are with the ladies.”

Jaime colored, his chest suddenly feeling quite warm. “You told him that?”

“Oh, sorry. Was that supposed to be a secret?” Brienne giggled. “I don’t think it’s a very well-kept one, if it is.”

There was a commotion on her end of the line, and Brienne covered the receiver to say something.

“Do you need to go?” Jaime asked, ticked off by the interruption.

_Hells, so much for telling Brienne about the break-up. How long had they been on the stupid phone? And all they had talked about was Brienne. Brienne. Brienne. Brienne. And fucking Stark._

“No, no. It’s just Gendry come to invite me to Davos’ poker game tonight.”

“Oh, well, you should go. You sound busy...” Jaime frowned into the phone.

“I’m not,” she assured.

“I can let you go," he insisted.

“Um … all right? If that’s what you want…?”

Jaime huffed out an exasperated breath. “It’s not what I want, Brienne,” he said testily. “But it sounds very much like what you want.”

“Wait… what I ...?” She broke off. “Is there something wrong, Jaime? You’re being weird -- weirder than normal.”

Jaime opened his mouth to deny it.

“Look, you don’t mind talking to me, right?” he blurted out, unable to keep the insecurity from bubbling out in a pathetic rush of words. “You … uh, don’t mind that I call you? That I talk to you?”

Brienne was silent. “Are you being serious?”

“I’m completely serious, Brienne. I mean, I know that you’re busy. Have your own life and everything. And I know I bug you a lot. And maybe you’d rather I didn’t. Maybe you have better things to do. And I know that this thing we have -- well, me -- requires a lot of effort on your part, and I guess I just want to make sure that you’re ... up to it?” He broke off, his voice rising in uncertainty.

“That I’m up to it?” Brienne repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

“Wait. Is all this because of Davos’ poker game? It’s just a poker game, Jaime. He has one every week. I’m not even very good. My poker face is nonexistent -- that’s why they want me to come and play...”

Jaime groaned in impatience. “Shit, Brienne. It’s not that difficult a question. Can you just fucking answer it?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, and Brienne fell silent. “Well, I could, Jaime,” she said finally, enunciating each word, as if he were hard of hearing. “I very well could, if I had even a remote idea of what you’re asking me. You’re making no sense.”

“Christ, Brienne. It’s not fucking rocket science. I’m simply asking… well, if you like talking to me?”

“Right now?” Brienne replied huffily. “When you’re being this ridiculous? No. I do not enjoy talking to you, Jaime Lannister. In fact, I’d rather be doing anything but.”

“OK, then ...” Jaime began bitterly.

“However,” she cut him off, before he could get too far into his temper tantrum, “If you’re asking if I enjoy talking to you, in general? When you’re not pissy and sulky and as pleasant as a fucking toothache -- then, yes. I do. Call me crazy, but I do.”

Jaime breathed out a sigh, his body sagging in warm relief. “Good. That’s … uh, good.” He was silent a moment, thinking. “So you don’t find me high-maintenance, then?”

“Jesus, I didn’t say that!” Brienne protested loudly. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jaime. You’re completely high-maintenance and often incredibly irritating.” She snorted indignantly. “But, I don’t know … You’re growing on me, I guess.”

“I’m growing on you? Well, thanks for such high praise, Brienne,” Jaime muttered. “Best watch that my head doesn’t get too big from all of your compliments. I might not be able to make it through the door.”

Brienne laughed. “And you ask if you’re high-maintenance! Christ, Jaime, why not just tell me what you want me to say? Just tell me, and we can be done with it.” She pitched her voice high and girlish. _“Jaime Lannister, you are a true delight to converse with on the phone. Your calls are the highlight of my whole evening._ There -- is that better?”

Jaime gave a begrudging laugh at that. “Sorry,” he groaned sheepishly, rubbing his face in embarrassment. “I’m just being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” she said automatically. And then, “Jaime, what’s brought all this up? Did something happen to make you think that I didn’t like talking to you?”

He hesitated for a long moment. “Cersei and I broke-up.”

“Oh shit,” Brienne breathed. “Gods, I’m so sorry, Jaime.”

“Are you? ...Why?”

“I…” Brienne trailed off, her voice contrite. “Well, isn’t that what one usually says in these situations?”

Jaime felt his temper flare again. “Shit, Brienne, I don’t want your platitudes,” he growled. “I’m not some far distant relative who just lost their elderly cat. You’ve thrown-up on me, I’ve thrown-up on you. I think we’re beyond the niceties at this stage. You don’t have to fucking pretend. I know you didn’t like her.”

“Yeah, but you did.”

That caught him off guard, and he coughed to mask the strange uncertainty suddenly flooding his body.

“Think what you want, but I am sorry, Jaime,” Brienne tried again. “Despite my history with Cersei, despite the fact that all you’ve done today is yell at me, I don’t like to see you hurt.”

“Yeah, of course. Of course you don’t,” Jaime huffed, peevishly. “Of course you’re sorry for me. Very noble of you, Brienne. Once more you ride the high road, leaving the rest of us in the dust.”

“I’m not … Are you angry with me, Jaime?”

“No.”

_Gods, what was he doing? He was acting like a child. Why was he getting mad at Brienne? He had so few people left in his life. He really shouldn’t purposely alienate them._

“Fuck,” he breathed out, exasperated with himself. “I’m sorry. I am. I just ... I’m just reeling from the break-up, I guess,” he tried to excuse. “We were together for a long time.”

“That you were.”

“It’s strange being alone -- not having that attachment.”

“Hmm...”

“I’m not quite sure who I am without it.”

“You’re you,” Brienne said simply. “You’re Jaime.”

He hesitated. “Is that a good thing, though?”

“Well, it can be. I think it definitely can be a good thing. It depends on you, I guess.”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

They fell into an awkward silence, neither one of them quite knowing what to say.

Finally, Jaime could bear the quiet no more.

“So, I was thinking of taking a trip up to Winterfell sometime. Maybe in the next few weeks. Before your season wraps.”

“Why?” Brienne’s voice was suspicious -- wary.

“Well, I heard it was the place to be for the newly single. All those somber, taciturn girls wrapped up in seventeen layers of clothing and stupid puffy coats. What could be better for a bachelor on the prowl?”

Brienne laughed loudly; and Jaime held the phone away from his ear to protect his hearing. “Hah! You mock, Lannister, but you’d stand no chance,” she teased. “Those puffy-coated girls would eat you alive.”

Jaime smiled at that, imagining her grin, the light in her eyes as she laughed. “Better not risk it then.”

He paused, unsure of what to say. “Honestly, it’d just be good to see you, I guess. I kind of miss you.”

“You do?”

“Brienne,” he sighed in exasperation. “I have exactly three people in my life who aren’t agents or fans or members of the media: you, Tyrion, and Cersei. And with Cersei out of the picture, and Tyrion sick of the sight of me, that just leaves you. I mean … if you’ll have me?”

The line went silent again, and Jaime swallowed, racking his brain for some witty quip to distract from the awkward rejection of her response.

_Shit. He shouldn’t have pushed it._

However, before he could think of anything, Brienne spoke, her voice worried, almost hesitant. “You’ll get a hotel this time?”

Jaime couldn’t hold back his own laugh, sheer relief flooding his system. “Yes, Tarth. I’ll get a hotel this time. You couldn’t pay me enough to spend another night on that fucking couch of yours.”

“This might be a good time to remind you that I haven’t said yes yet,” she muttered, primly; and Jaime grinned wider.

“Please Brienne. Let me come visit you. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Right. I’ve seen your best behavior, remember. It’s not all that great.”

“OK, then,” he smiled, feeling a million times lighter than he had in days. “Then I promise I’ll try to be better.”

“Well,” Brienne sighed in weary resignation. “I guess that’s all I can ask. You are quite high-maintenance, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a crazy couple of weeks! Thank you so much for all of your concern and well-wishes. I’m back home and safe -- even though it’s still a mess around here. Smoke, high temperatures, and power outages do not make for a pleasant end to the summer. However I can’t complain (too much), since so many others are dealing with far worse. 😥
> 
> Now that I’m home, the good news is that I should be back to a regular posting schedule. The bad news is that this schedule is going to have to be every other week, in order to preserve what’s left of my sanity. Honestly, gang, between the job, the craziness of 2020, and the insane length these chapters are turning out to be, every other week is about all I can manage at the moment. 
> 
> Again, I so appreciate all the encouragement that you have given this fic and its author. You are so kind! Thank you for every lovely message, kudo, bookmark, subscription, and hit. You all are the best! 💖


	18. Every Other Freckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, shit. Jaime's feeling some things.

**“Every Other Freckle”**

**alt-J**

**“I want to share your mouthful**   
**I want to do all the things your lungs do so well**   
**I'm gonna bed into you like a cat beds into a beanbag**   
**Turn you inside out and lick you like a crisp packet**

**Oh oh oh oh oh, devour me**   
**Oh oh oh oh oh**   
**If you really think that you can stomach me”**

**~~~~~~**

**Eleven Years Earlier:**

**_Westerosi,_ Season 24, Episode 27, Scene 32: “Hunger”**

_Roman pushes Dunc into the backseat of his car, throwing the sodden backpack of picnic supplies into the driver’s seat and piling in after her -- wrenching the door closed before the torrential downpour can drench the interior._

_Shit. What the hell?_

_Dunc is laughing. She is soaking wet and sticking to the leather upholstery but still laughing._

_Roman is not._

_He sits there in the dark of the car breathing hard, muttering curses under his breath. He should have known. He really should have known._

_When he had first suggested a romantic picnic -- a picnic with the whole checkered cloth and bread and cheese and champagne nicked from his father’s liquor supply and everything -- Dunc had just given him an incredulous look._

_“Picnic?” she had said. “Roman, it’s January.”_

_However, Roman hadn’t listened, so wrapped up was he in his grand, romantic plans. He wanted to do this right. Had to do this right. And the stupid picnic was an important piece of the plan._

_So he had procured the colorful lanterns and the checkered cloth and the bread and the strawberries and the champagne and had somehow convinced Dunc to come out on a frigid, January night. And everything had been going to plan -- perfectly going to plan. And then it had started to rain, because, apparently, the universe didn’t give a fuck for any of his plans -- romantic or otherwise._

_At first, they had tried to stick it out, Dunc knowing how important Roman's big “plan” was to him. But when the light shower had turned into a cold deluge, they had been forced to retreat back to the car._

_Dunc scoots closer to him, her wet skin making a squeaking sound against the upholstery._

_But he can’t look at her right now. He’s so frustrated. So disappointed._

_Shit._

_However, like always, she ignores his mood and reaches for him. “You look like a drowned rat,” she says, holding his chin still and wiping the water off of his face with her fingers. “A very grumpy, drowned rat.”_

_He grunts and shakes his head._

_“Oh, come on, Webber. It’s not that bad,” she soothes, her blue eyes alight with humor, trying to cajole him out of his black mood. “So it’s raining? So we got a little wet?” She smooths her hand against his face again. “Lucky for you, you’re pretty cute when you’re wet.”_

_He catches her hand, turning to look at her, before pulling her onto his lap, hefting her body into his, her legs falling on either side of him, her skirt riding up her thighs. “You’re cute when you’re wet too,” he says lowly, settling her against his legs._

_She blushes, trying to adjust herself so that she’s not towering over him. She feels huge, the top of her head almost brushing the ceiling of the car; but he is looking at her so hungrily that, suddenly, any self-consciousness that she feels evaporates into the thick, murky air._

_Roman reaches up to move a strand of dripping hair out of her face and then leans back against the seat just looking at her -- seriously -- achingly._

_“What?” she says, uncomfortable being the object of such intense contemplation._

_“You know that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” His voice is strained, quiet in its earnestness._

_She colors again, her blush vivid, even in the darkness of the car. “Stop.”_

_He’s been doing that a lot lately. Saying things -- incredibly romantic things -- things that she thought were only said in books and really cheesy movies-- and saying them in that grave and serious tone that he only pulls out once in a blue moon -- which means that she can’t even pass his comments off as a joke. It’s confusing. Completely and totally. And all of Dunc’s normal defense mechanisms don’t work._

_“I’m serious, Dunc. I don’t know where I’d even be without you. Who I’d be.”_

_She tries to laugh. “You don’t have to lay it on so thick, Webber,” she teases. “I’m already in your car on your lap. I’d say you’ve won this round.”_

_He frowns, brushing off her joke._

_He’s been in a mood all day long. Snapping at her -- insisting on this ridiculous, winter picnic. And now he’s here, ruining what could be a pretty good make-out opportunity with his bad mood._

_He’s quiet for a long minute, before looking up at her again, his eyes serious. “Sometimes you’re all I think about.”_

_“Roman ...”_

_“I’m serious. I can’t stop thinking about you. I try, but you’re all that’s in my head. In class, during a game, at night, in my bed. It’s getting fucking out of control.”_

_She looks at him._

_He looks like he’s angry, suffering -- like looking at her hurts him. Maybe she’s just too heavy._

_“You just don’t get it …” he breaks off, frustrated._

_She shifts in his lap, trying to ease her weight onto her knees so that she doesn’t crush him; but he’s having none of that and pulls her down again, settling her against his thighs._

_“It’s like I can’t ever get enough of you.”_

_She blinks at him, her expression a little wary. She feels out of her depth here._

_“I mean, when I’m not around you, I miss you like crazy. And when you’re with me, I just … I don’t know. I just want to keep you with me … always.”_

_What the hells is happening?_ _She makes another attempt to take them back to safer ground. “Are you trying to be romantic, Roman Webber?”_

_“If I am, I’m doing a shit job,” he groans, his expression sheepish._

_There he is -- the old Roman. The one she recognizes._

_She kisses the tip of his nose, almost relieved. “No you’re not. And I like you too, you weirdo.”_

_But that seems to set him off again. He pulls back, irritated -- almost indignant. “No. It’s more than that, Dunc,” he insists. “Fuck, I passed ‘like’ a long time ago.”_

_She gives him a small smile and raises her eyebrow. She has no idea where he’s going with all this._

_“Well, hopefully we’re not back to hate then,” she jokes. “I don’t think my ego could take all those insults again.”_

_He shakes his head in aggravation. “I’m being serious.” He licks his lips nervously, his fingers grasping her hips._

_“Dunc. I …” he breaks off, his face red, his expression almost stricken._

_He’s upset. Really upset._

_She reaches out a hand to touch his face. “Hey. It’s OK. It’s OK. You don’t have to …”_

_“No, please. Just let me just say this.” He can’t say it to her face, so he pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her wet hair._

_“I love you.”_

_He says it in a whoosh, as if it were all one word, “Iloveyou. Iloveyou.”_

_Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!_

_She’s dreamed of this moment -- well, pretty much ever since she started crushing on him. Way back before they were ever together. But now that it’s here, it feels different -- unreal, terrifying. There’s a weird swoopy feeling in her stomach, and her skin feels all tingly and hot, and she just wants to bolt out of this car -- to run out into the rain -- to run and run in the dark and the wet and cold because he loves her. Roman Webber loves her. And her body just can’t hold-in -- just can’t contain the knowledge of it without something slipping out._

_But she’s here, in this car, and he’s waiting for an answer._

_She tries to pull back, but he has her so tightly, as if he’s afraid to see her face. So she turns her head to where his is buried, kissing his temple. “I love you too,” the emotion in her answer catching in her voice._

_He stills. Almost stops breathing for a long moment; and then he is moving, pulling her into him, kissing her neck, her throat, her jaw, his hands grasping at her back, falling to her hips and fumbling under her wet shirt to grasp the cold skin beneath._

_She sighs into him and winds her long arms around his neck and just holds on for dear life._

_They’ve done things._

_They’ve been dating a little over a year, and they’ve done things -- well, some things -- some basic things -- some very basic things. But even in their relatively chaste fumblings, it’s never felt like this before, the air around them almost sparking with electricity._

_He moves his hands up to her rib cage, his fingers tracing just under her bra; and Dunc can take it no longer. Suddenly the wet fabric on her skin feels impossibly wrong. She unwraps her arms from around his head and rips off her shirt, tossing it into the front seat of the car in a gesture so bold and so unlike her, she almost feels like she’s been possessed._

_That stops him. He looks up from her neck, his green eyes wide and impossibly vulnerable. “Dunc…” he rasps._

_But she just kisses him. She kisses him and kisses him until she’s not sure where her mouth ends and his begins._

_His hands wander up to the clasp of her bra, and she pulls back, looking at his eyes --his beautiful eyes that look so … nervous? cautious? terrified?_

_She nods, and he blinks. “Are you sure?”_

_She nods again._

_He closes his eyes._

_She feels his fingers on her back, as they wrestle with the clasp. It finally pulls free, and his hands fall from her sides to rest on her thighs._

_She looks at him and nervously bites her lip, waiting. But he just looks wrecked._

_“Roman?”_

_He swallows, his hand tentatively reaching up to slide one strap down her shoulder. He stops and pulls back before it is totally free, closing his eyes again._

_“It’s OK,” she whispers, afraid to speak louder, even though they are alone in his car, and the rain is loud -- so loud -- pounding on the roof and splattering against the foggy windows like shrapnel._

_She stills, waiting for him to move, but he seems like he’s having second thoughts-- just sitting there silently staring. So she grabs his hand and moves it to her breast, the loose bra barely covering it._

_He is shaking, and it’s not from the cold, because his skin is hot, and his face is flushed._

_“Roman?” she questions. He’s starting to worry her now._

_She’s the one with the lack of experience. She’s the one who has insisted that they take things at a glacial pace. He’s the expert in all of this. So why is he acting like he’s never done this before?_

_She leans down and kisses his cheek sweetly. “Are you all right?_

_She’s sitting in his lap with no shirt on, her bra unclasped, but oddly Dunc feels like the one who is in control._

_He looks up at her face then. “Shit,” he breathes out._

_Dunc frowns. That’s not quite the response she expected the first time she actually got to second base for real. She starts to pull back a little, but Roman’s hands grasp her hips and move her into him._

_“No. Please.” His voice is strangled. “It’s just … a lot.”_

_“We don’t have to,” she tries to excuse._

_“No,” he says again. “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of you like this. How long I’ve…” He breaks off. “Shit, that sounds creepy.”_

_She shakes her head and leans in to kiss him. “No. I’ve dreamed about it too,” she says softly._

_He moves his face to kiss her sternum, in between her breasts, where her bra is gaping, and then rests his face there. “Is this too fast?”_

_“We’ve been together for over a year and friends for two before that.”_

_“I know,” he says. “It just feels so big. So monumental.”_

_Dunc threads her fingers through his hair, where it is curling from the rain and the thick air of the car. “You’ve done this before. Many times, if all the graffiti in the girls’ restroom is true.”_

_He pulls back, his eyes falling to her breasts, before he lifts his head to meet hers. “No. I’ve never done this before.”_

_She rolls her eyes, “Roman, come on…”_

_“No, no,” he cuts her off. “I’ve had sex, sure,” he says, and she frowns because the last thing she wants to think about right now is Roman with other girls. “But I’ve never done this before.” He raises his hips into her to make his point, and she inhales a quick breath, the reality of what they are about to do finally hitting home._

_“Yes, I think I probably would have noticed if you’d had sex with me before this,” she deadpans, amazed that she can joke at a moment like this, when her nerves are so wound that she can barely draw a full breath. “I’m not that oblivious.”_

_But he shakes his head. “No. I’ve never done this with someone I love before.” He looks pained._

_“Is it different?”_

_“In every possible way,” he breathes. He brings a shaking hand up to run it lightly across the top curve of her left breast, circling it gently. “When you took your shirt off, all I could think was, ‘this can’t be happening -- it’s too much.’”_

_“Roman, nothing has to happen,” she assures him._

_“No. I want it to. I mean I didn’t plan it or anything.” He looks around in the dark. “It’s not exactly the way I envisioned our first time -- in the back of a fucking car in the fucking rain. But, gods, Dunc. I want you so much I can’t think straight.”_

_He looks so vulnerable. So helpless. It does something to her -- inside of her -- that she can’t explain._

_“I want you all of the damn time,” he continues. “It’s all I think about. And if you want me, then …” he trails off, looking over her shoulder, as if he is afraid of her answer._

_That weird, swoopy feeling is back, but this time Dunc sinks into it -- lets it surround her -- lets the bubbles that are fizzing and frothing in her bloodstream do their worst. She reaches out and grabs Roman’s hand bringing it to her lips for a soft kiss before returning it to her breast. “I want you, Roman Webber. In the back of this fucking car -- in the fucking rain. And I …”_

_But she doesn’t finish her sentence because he has flipped her onto her back and is kissing her and kissing her. And the blood is pounding in her ears almost as loudly as the rain that hammers relentlessly against the roof of his car._

**~~~~~~**

Brienne sat at the table in her dressing room, her head in her hand, the stringy strands of her hair falling forward in a pale curtain. She looked a mess. Her hair, which was hardly bouncy and shiny at the best of times, had dried into a style that best resembled an old, used mop -- the sensitive skin of her cheeks and neck, red and irritated from Jaime’s stubble.

 _“Lord, what a trainwreck,”_ she thought defeatedly. Well, at least she was out of that damn, wet bra and back into her usual, real-life uniform of an old sweatshirt and leggings.

In the most shocking twist ever, the love scene had actually gone pretty well. For all that she had worried about exposing herself, after the first four takes or so, it had just seemed normal, sitting there on Jaime’s lap in an unhooked bra (securely glued and taped to her skin, of course, so as not to slip and reveal too much). Oh, it had been an exhausting scene -- requiring a great deal of vulnerability and trust, a great deal of give and take. But, like all of their past scenes together, it hadn’t taken very long for them to find the rhythm of the scene and sync themselves up until they were meeting each other beat for beat.

It had also helped that Jaime, for once in his damn life, had behaved himself. In fact, he had been incredibly quiet and subdued the entire day. Brienne had expected some snarky comment about how heavy she was, about her lack of tits, or her overly-developed abs, or the fact that her body was literally covered with freckles; but, surprisingly, Jaime had been the consummate professional. He had listened seriously to the director’s instructions, checking with Brienne to make sure she was OK with the placement of his hands, with his movements and reactions. He had insisted that they were given breaks when things got too intense, apologized about the scratch of his five o’clock shadow that had suddenly become a factor around take fifteen, and had kept his gaze as respectable as possible, considering that Brienne had been half naked and sitting on him. It was the damnedest thing.

Although things had been slightly less hostile between them lately, Jaime had never, in all the time she had worked with him, been solicitous and well-mannered -- at least, not towards her. Honestly, Brienne counted it a victory if the two of them managed to get through a day of shooting without it devolving into a massive shouting match. A kind Jaime? A considerate Jaime? That was something she had never really seen before. Not that it was unwelcome. No, no -- it was very welcome. However, it was surprising, to say the least.

Of course, it was probably just the intensity of the day’s scene that had caused his mood change. Jaime had a tendency to get weird during big, emotional scenes -- withdrawing into himself, becoming distracted, sometimes zoning out and then getting angry. Maybe this polite attentiveness was just another of his coping strategies. One could only hope.

Brienne’s phone rang, jarring her from her thoughts, and she fumbled to answer it.

“Brienne.” It was Goodwin, her agent.

“Hi, Goodwin,” she said carefully, her heartbeat instantly speeding up.

_Holy crap. This was it. This was what she had been waiting for for the past two days -- what she had tried to put out of her mind during today’s filming._

Brienne’s contract was up at the end of the season; and she and Goodwin were banking on her newfound popularity providing her with a substantial raise. After all, Dunc and Roman were currently the most popular couple on _Westerosi_ , garnering a whole slew of new viewers and fans for the long-running franchise. And Brienne, being one half of the new “it-couple,” was directly responsible for some of that increased revenue and interest. Add to that, the fact that she had found out at the end of last season from one of the ADs that Jaime was making significantly more than she was and had been ever since he had joined the show -- and, all of a sudden, her paycheck seemed more like an insult than an acclamation. No, Goodwin agreed, it was time to demand that the producers start paying Brienne what she was worth -- not the piddly salary increase that they had offered her at the start of negotiations.

“Babe, they passed,” Goodwin said, like always ignoring the pleasantries and getting straight to the point. “They say that they won’t pay you more than their original offer.”

Brienne felt herself deflate, sagging against the table. “Are you joking?” Part of her had expected this. But part of her, the part of her that was tired, so damn tired of the double-standard that seemed to be the very foundation of this goddamn industry, was outraged. “Did you bring up the fact that Jaime is paid like five times more than I am?” Her voice was high, strained, angry.

“Oh, I brought that up,” Goodwin replied, gruffly. “They gave me some song and dance routine about Lannister’s female following, his family name, the fact that he’s in so many magazines and commercials. They say he brings more viewers to the show than all of the other actors combined, which justifies the extra salary.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Brienne said angrily. “Dunc and Roman are the most popular couple in all of the twenty some years of the show -- the fan favorites. I make up half of that couple. Surely that’s worth something?”

“I’m sorry, Brienne,” Goodwin apologized. “They wouldn’t budge. I can tell them that we’re walking. You’re better than that paltry salary they are offering. However, I don’t want to do something that you might regret. Even with the chump change they’re offering, it’s still a pretty good gig for an eighteen year old actress in this business.”

“Shit,” Brienne gritted out. She closed her eyes, trying very hard not to cry.

_They didn’t think she was worth paying more? They should try filming for ten hours straight in a fucking car, wearing little more than a wet, unhooked bra that was taped to your skin. Let them do that for a day and then get back to her about how much she was worth._

“Look,” Goodwin said, trying to be positive. “It’s not completely over yet. Let’s just stall a little before we give them the answer. See if we can wait them out. Outlast them. Make them wonder if you’re walking or not.”

“It’s not fair. It’s just not fair,” Brienne said, her flushed face matching the rash from Jaime’s stubble. “I work just as hard as Jaime does. We do the same damn job, Goodwin. The same damn job.”

“I know, kiddo. I know. I’m sorry, Brienne. I wish I could tell you that this is just an anomaly, just Baelish being a prick like usual; but you know as well as I do that it’s not just a one-off. This whole business is controlled by pricks. It’s shitty as all hell, but it’s reality.”

“Yeah,” she rasped.

“Look. The weekend’s coming up. Get some rest. Have a good think on it. We’ll meet up early next week and discuss strategy -- decide how we want to move forward.”

“OK,” she sighed.

“Brienne, you’re still my favorite client, you know. I’ll support you one hundred percent whatever you decide to do.”

“Thanks, Goodwin,” she said.

_She needed to get off the phone right now. Before she lost it and started crying._

“I’ll talk to you soon, OK?”

She hung up the phone, throwing it down on the dressing room table.

_Shit._

She glanced up to meet her reflection.

_Double shit._

No wonder they didn’t see her true worth, if that’s what they saw every time they looked at her. Pale and haggard -- like the world had beaten her down at the tender age of eighteen.

She shoved a stiff strand of hair out of her face, rubbing at the line of irritated skin across her jaw. Hells, it would be a while before that would fade. Jaime and his stupid, incredibly attractive stubble.

_Gods, what would it be like to be beautiful and powerful -- to have everyone want you, without you even having to try? To be treated with deference and paid what you were worth? To be valued? Just to be valued?_

There was a knock on her door, and Brienne closed her eyes tiredly.

_Damn it. The last thing she wanted to deal with right now was anything having to do with the fucking show._

Slumping further into her sweatshirt, she got up to open the door.

Jaime Lannister stood in the hallway, his hair dried and perfectly styled, wearing the same carefully watchful expression that he had worn during the shooting of the scene.

_Awesome._

“What?” Brienne said, her voice tired and defeated.

Jaime blinked, looking past her into her dressing room, as if he had expected someone else to answer the door. He looked out of place, uncomfortable.

Brienne sighed impatiently, and Jaime turned his head back to her.

“Hey,” he croaked finally. He cleared his throat, looking away again. “Uh, yeah. I...uh, just wanted to check to see if you’re OK?”

“Yeah, of course,” Brienne said flatly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just thought …” he licked his lips, his eyes skittering to her face and then past her shoulder again. “It was a pretty intense scene. And I just thought I’d better check-in. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you were good,” he added quickly, still not looking at her. “You were really good. Honestly, I could barely keep up with you.”

Brienne frowned.

_What the hells was he playing at? She was good -- really good?_

_Christ, the words cut with a fresh sharpness -- digging under her skin uncomfortably with the truth of them. Jaime, admittedly, could barely keep up with her; and yet she was paid a fifth of what he was making. He could barely keep up with her; and yet somehow she was the dispensable one._

His eyes finally settled on her face, waiting for her answer.

“Thanks,” she muttered, suddenly wanting to get as far away from him as possible -- his very presence stinging like salt in her wounds.

“Yeah,” he said.

They fell silent, Brienne wondering how long she would have to stand there before she could close the door. “Well … uh…”

“Are you sure you’re OK?”

_Damn it! Why was he being like this? Of all the goddamn days to grow a goddamn conscience._

“Yeah,” she said again, hoping he’d tire of her monosyllabic responses and just go. But then, as she looked at his stupid, beautiful, worried face, she couldn’t contain her anger any more. “You know what? That’s a lie. I’m not OK, Jaime. I’m fucking not OK. Compared to you, I guess I’m not OK at all. At least, that’s what everyone’s telling me.”

“What?” That got him to look at her, alarmed at her outburst. “I don’t understand.”

She let out an angry breath. “No. You wouldn’t. I mean, how could you?”

Jaime’s strange worry slowly dropped away, replaced by a familiar expression of irritation. He stepped back a pace. “Look, I was just trying to be nice.”

“Hell, why start now?” Brienne groused, suddenly pissed as all hells at the injustice of it all. “Shame to break the streak. You were on such a roll of shitiness.”

Jaime frowned. “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you, Tarth?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Brienne said, her voice rising. “What the hells is wrong with me?”

He shook his head. “I don’t...”

“I mean why do I have to be five times better than everyone else just to make it in this business? Why do I make five times less than you for the same damn work? Why am I not worth what you’re worth? Why aren’t I given the same respect you’re given? I mean, what’s wrong with me? -- with what I do? -- with who I am?”

Jaime’s mouth had fallen open during her tirade, and he held up his hands, taking another step back, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Brienne. I don’t know where this is coming from; but I didn’t do shit to you.” He quickly course corrected, “I didn’t do shit this time. All I wanted to do was to check and make sure you were OK?”

“I’m OK. I’m fucking OK, Jaime. Can’t you tell?” she spit out.

_Gods she didn’t need this. She didn’t need this right now. She didn’t need him reminding her that she would never be enough -- her talent would never be enough -- no matter how hard she tried._

“Brienne....” His phone went off, the strident chords of some pop song sounding, Cersei’s face flashing across the screen.

Brienne shook her head, snorting out a sarcastic huff. “Better get that,” she muttered, gesturing to his phone. “Cersei’s probably worried about you. Probably wants to know whether you were able to get through today’s scene without throwing up.”

Jaime frowned. “Brienne…”

He reached out a hand, but, in it, his phone was still ringing loudly, Cersei’s perfect face still smiling up from the screen.

“Just go, Jaime,” Brienne said, barely holding back the tears that were pushing against her eyes. “Go -- take your call. I’m OK. Totally OK. I mean, why wouldn’t I be? Things are just so incredibly ... OK.”

“Brienne…”

“Go,” she insisted.

Jaime huffed out a breath.“Whatever,” he said in irritation.

“Whatever,” she repeated and closed the door in his face.

**~~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Brienne was fucking good.

Jaime had forgotten what it was like to watch her work. The sheer energy she threw into every one of her scenes -- the nuances of expression -- the way she used her voice -- used her body. Watching her was like watching a master class in acting.

The scene was a fairly mundane one. Brienne and a ragtag group of knights planning an attack on an impenetrable enemy headquarters or something. It was nothing mind blowing. The same plot had been used over and over in countless sci-fi and action films. However, somehow, Brienne was bringing new life to the tired trope -- selling every predictable moment -- giving each beat gravity, urgency, authenticity.

Jaime watched entranced, as Brienne grasped the shoulder of the young actor who was playing the technical expert of the group, lowering her face to look directly into his eyes, her voice ragged as she pleaded with him.

In response to what she was saying, the actor instantly teared up, blinking and red faced.

Shit, she was good -- literally pulling the emotion from the boy with the force of her performance.

Honestly, she was completely wasted on this ridiculous space knights show -- although, at the very least, they seemed to appreciate the jackpot they had landed when they had found her. Actually, in Jaime’s opinion, they seemed to appreciate her a little too much. Yes, she was working, but the annoying fact of the matter was that someone attached to the show had been hovering around her for the whole of his visit. In fact, ever since he had arrived in Winterfell three days ago, Jaime had only been able to cobble together a tiny bit of alone time with Brienne, wedged between early morning calls and hours and hours of training and stunt choreography and, of course, shooting. It was ridiculous. Every time he turned around, someone was always there wanting her attention.

Stark, of course, was the worst of them. But then there was Gendry and this new kid, Pod or Pog or something, who seemed to never leave her side. To be fair, Brienne had warned Jaime that, with the season winding down, it was the very worst time to visit. However, he had assured her that it was no big deal -- he’d just let her work and blend into the background. Only, now that he was here, he realized he was shit at blending into the background -- especially when it came to Brienne. Oh, he put on his mature and patient game face and played along, but the whole thing frustrated the hells out of him. He had flown here -- flown to Winterfell to be around her -- to spend time with her. And yet, all they’d managed in his three damn days in this land of fucking endless winter were a few late-night dinners and one movie night at his hotel suite that had culminated in Brienne falling asleep ten minutes into the bloody film.

No, it wasn’t going at all as planned. Not that Jaime had plans or anything -- other than just spending time around Brienne. Which he wasn’t really. Which pissed him off.

But then what could he do?

Nothing -- that’s what. Other than sit here in the cold watching her work and resenting the hells out of her costars whom she was always joking with, always smiling at, always giving a friendly push or a pat on the shoulder. She had never treated Jaime like that when they had worked together. Of course, he had pretty much been the consummate asshole back then -- an asshole who made it his mission to antagonize her. Still … maybe if she had treated him like she treated Stark, things would have been different. Did she like Stark? Stark certainly liked her, that was for damn sure. But did Brienne ...

The AD called cut and waved his hand at the craft services table, signaling a break. And after a few minutes of joking with her fawning entourage of stupidly fit boys, Brienne came wandering over to where Jaime sat.

“Hiya,” she said, wrapping her arms around her torso to ward off the cold. “I can’t believe you're still here.” She looked around at the almost empty set. “This can’t be the least bit exciting for you. And it’s colder than hells in this building. You should go back to the hotel.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime said mildly. Actually, he wasn’t fine. No, in actuality his stump was starting to ache excruciatingly. The fit of damn prosthesis had never been wonderful, the fastenings rubbing against his injured arm painfully, every time he wore it for more than an hour. He had discussed it with his doctor, who had told him that the best course forward was minor surgery. Shave down and reshape the stump for a better, more comfortable fit. However, Jaime had balked at the thought of going under the knife again. So he grinned and bore it. Well, mostly he didn’t wear the goddamn thing. However, he made sure to wear it to Brienne’s set. Made sure to wear it around Stark and all the other guys. It hurt like fucking hell, and the cold just made it worse, but he wasn’t going to be caught without it.

“Wouldn’t you rather be relaxing in your hotel room until I’m finished?” Brienne broke into his painful thoughts. “Or you could even hang out in my trailer? There’s not much to do, but, at least, it’s warm.”

“I’m fine, Brienne,” Jaime repeated. “I like watching you work.”

She gave him a strange smile. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, of course. I always said you were the most talented actress I’ve ever worked with.”

Brienne snorted. “You never said that.”

“I didn’t?” Jaime mused pensively. “Well, I thought it, at least.”

“Right.”

“Is it an early day today, by any chance?” Jaime asked hopefully, gingerly lifting his aching arm and resting it in his lap. “I’d like to try out the hotel restaurant tonight. Have a nice sit down meal. Sample some of those Winterfell wines Tyrion goes on and on about.”

Brienne frowned. “I think we knock off at six today, but …”

Before she could finish, Stark wandered over, a stupid grin on his stupid face making him look even younger than his stupid twenty-three years.

With an easy comradery that Jaime envied, Stark slung his arm around Brienne’s waist and looked at Jaime, raising his eyebrows. “Are you in, Lannister?”

Jaime frowned. _Fucking Stark._ “In what?”

Stark looked to Brienne, his arm still annoyingly around her waist. “Didn’t you ask him?”

“I was just about to,” Brienne replied.

“Ask me what?” Jaime was about two minutes away from taking off his stupid prosthesis after all, vanity be damned, if only to use it to bludgeon the smug, cocky bastard -- maybe mar that pretty face of his just a little bit.

“We’re all going out to The Smoking Log tonight. Shoot some pool, get a little hammered. I mean, if you’re interested. I know you probably have an early bedtime.” Stark grinned and raised his eyebrows challengingly. “Probably need those twelve hours of Zs or whatever people your age require.”

Jaime looked at Brienne incredulously. _Was the boy fucking kidding right now? Hells, Jaime had barely had a moment alone with Brienne this whole visit, and she wanted to go for a night on the town with the whole, bloody gang? With fucking Stark?_

“I thought I could show you that bar I’ve been talking about,” Brienne said smiling, oblivious to Jaime’s internal meltdown. “Give you a night out on the town, such as it is. I thought it might be fun for you to meet some of the locals. Have a little adventure, since the rest of your trip has been so boring.”

_Boring? The fuck was she on about? The only boring thing about this trip was having to make small talk with all of her cast-mates. Blah, blah, blah, Winterfell. Blah, blah, blah, Brienne’s the best. Blah, blah, blah, cartoons and knights and video games. Look at all our muscles and our track clothes and beanies and trainers. We’re super edgy, didn’t you know?_

Robb was looking at him, a smug smile on his face. So instead of making some scathing comment and reminding Brienne that he came out here to see her -- and only her -- and didn’t want to waste his time and energy on the locals of Winterfell -- Stark included -- Jaime smiled his best false smile. “Sure. That sounds great.”

From over on set, the AD called places; and Robb gave Jaime a pleased nod before unwinding his arm from around Brienne and sauntering off to take his mark.

Brienne gazed at Jaime suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re up to a night out? You don’t have to go, you know. Robb and Gendry thought it might be good to get you out a bit; but I can tell them that you’re not up to it. They’d understand.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d understand,” Jaime said, frowning in irritation. “I’m sure they’d have no problem entertaining you in my absence. But, I am most certainly up for a night on the town, Brienne. In fact, I can’t think of anything that I’d rather do.”

“Great,” Brienne said, her voice hesitant, as if she didn’t believe him but was too afraid to air her suspicion.

The AD called places again.

“I’d uh … better get back,” she said.

“Yes, you better.”

“You’re sure you’re OK going out?”

“Yes, Brienne. I’m sure,” Jaime replied through a tight smile. His goddamn arm was starting to burn, but he was going to keep smiling if it killed him.

She nodded at him once, and then turned to take her mark.

Once her back was turned, Jaime let out a sigh, rubbing his arm, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

_Fucking Stark._

**~~~~~~**

The Smoking Log turned out to be a dark, little hole in the wall with three pool tables, a couple of dart boards, and an ancient jukebox that only played like three songs. But, luckily, and the reason why it had such a large group of regulars, it offered decently priced drinks that contained enough alcohol to get a person pretty drunk without said person having to exert much effort.

And, without much effort, Brienne was well on her way, after only two and a half drinks.

At first, Jaime had been annoyed. The last thing he needed to deal with was a drunk Brienne in a public place, especially with Stark always hovering, just waiting there to shoot his shot.

However, as the evening wore on, Jaime came to the realization that a slightly tipsy Brienne also came with major benefits. A slightly tipsy Brienne let down her guard enough to smile and sit close enough to Jaime that he could feel the warmth of her body heat on his thigh. A slightly tipsy Brienne laughed at all of his jokes and didn’t give him a hard time when he lapsed into petty snarkiness. A slightly tipsy Brienne would even participate in some mild flirting, like she was doing now -- her long, pale fingers running around the rim of her glass, as she leveled those damn blue eyes of hers at him and spoke, her voice low and mellow.

What slightly tipsy Brienne was saying, however, was a mystery to Jaime. He had lost the thread of the table’s conversation long ago; his concentration currently focused on watching Brienne’s fingers skating across the top of her glass. It was mesmerizing -- the twist of her wrist, the flex of the muscle of her forearm, the golden freckles that dotted her skin, making her almost glow in the dim light of the bar.

_Shit. These drinks were fucking potent._

Oh, it wasn’t that Jaime _wasn’t_ aware that, somewhere along the line, his feelings for Brienne had shifted a bit. He might have had the reputation for being the dumbest Lannister, but he wasn’t that dumb. No, he had noticed when his mind had started being consumed with thoughts of her. He had noticed when her texts and phone calls were not simply a nice distraction but more of a necessity -- something that helped him get through his day. He had noticed when the sound of her voice, tired and cranky as it often was, made him smile. But he was also smart enough to know that that’s all it could be. A mild crush. A small infatuation. Hells, it had taken ages for her to forgive him -- and he had had to work damn hard at that -- still had to work damn hard. Brienne would freak the fuck out if she ever suspected that he was harboring a bit of a crush on her. And Jaime was not going to risk what they had -- everything that they had overcome -- for a stupid crush. Besides, it wasn’t like he was pining after her or anything. He just thought she was cool -- which she was. He wasn’t looking for anything more. Hells, he was single for the first time in fifteen long years. No need to rush into anything with anyone -- even if that anyone was Brienne Tarth, who was sitting next to him, the alcohol making her freaking remarkable eyes soft and her voice thick and fuzzy.

Pod said something, and the whole table burst into laughter -- Jaime joining in, even though he’d completely missed the punchline. He didn’t even know what they were talking about.

Celebrity feuds apparently, as Davos soon resumed his first-hand account of the long-standing feud between Agnes Blackwood and her jilted ex, Lothar Bracken, which had resulted in eight seasons of chaos on the popular telenovela Riverlands back in the day.

Jaime zoned out again, watching Brienne’s hand on her glass.

“You two were known for your battles,” Gendry said suddenly.

Jaime looked up to see Gendry pointing at the two of them, a teasing smirk on his face.

“I remember the gossip mags were filled with reports of your fights. You were kinda legendary.”

“Yeah we were,” Brienne cried, smiling in acknowledgement. She held up her drink to sloppily clink it with Jaime’s glass that was sitting on the table untouched. “We were legendary.”

Jaime frowned. “We weren’t that bad.”

Brienne snorted. “Are you drunk, Lannister? We were the worst. Truly hated each other.”

Jaime moved his glass away, in case she tried to clink it again. He wasn’t toasting to that bullshit. “I didn’t hate you.”

Brienne laughed. “Could have fooled me. You were freaking horrible to me.”

Jaime pressed his lips together in irritation, all the pleasant thoughts from before slipping away, as he felt a flush of embarrassment and shame creep up his neck and into his face. All eyes were turned to him. Damn it. “Yes, well…” he trailed off.

_Shit. This was exactly why he wasn’t going to even acknowledge the stupid crush he seemed to have suddenly developed on Brienne. It was doomed from the start. He had fucked-up all chances of anything happening fifteen years ago when he had decided to be an asshole to the one person in his life that he now most wanted to impress._

He cleared his throat. “I was a jerk back then. I admit it …”

However, before he could finish his explanation, Brienne shook her head, throwing one of her arms out in a sweeping gesture, almost knocking Pod’s drink off of the table.

“Yes, but that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?”

Jaime frowned.

However, Brienne continued unabashed, leaning forward to address the rest of the table. “Honestly, if someone had told me ten years ago that I would be sitting here sharing a drink with Jaime fucking Lannister, I would have asked them what drug they were on.” She laughed, bumping Jaime’s shoulder fondly with her own. “But look at us, eh? Being all friends and everything.” She turned her gaze to Jaime. “We’re friends now, right?” she asked earnestly. “We’ve worked it all out. We’re friends?”

Jaime felt his cheeks heat up.

Robb snorted.

“Friends?” Gendry questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Brienne nodded and then threw an arm around Jaime’s shoulder, pulling him into her roughly. “Good friends.”

Jaime colored more, suddenly feeling the sting of her dismissal, even with the warmth of her arm around him.

 _“It’s not a dismissal, you fool,”_ he thought to himself.

Shit, he should be thrilled that Brienne was calling him a good friend. But somehow the title rankled, especially with Stark sitting there smugly smiling.

_Fucking Stark._

Luckily Davos saved the moment. He pushed up from the table, reaching a hand out to Brienne. “All right, darling. Jaime may be your good friend, but you promised me a game of pool. I mean, I might not be as friendly as Jaime here is, but ten bucks says I can still beat your ass.”

Brienne unwound her arm from Jaime’s shoulder and stood up from the table, swaying just a tiny bit at the sudden movement. “Davos, you're my friend, and I love you; but I think you may be getting senile. Pool is not poker. You have never and will never beat me, old man.” She turned to Pod. “Come on, Podrick. You can be on my team. Time I taught you the ropes.”

“I get Stark then,” Davos said. And then added, “Sorry, Gen. No offense.”

“No worries,” Gendry replied affably. “I’m happy to sit this one out and talk to Lannister. I’ve heard he’s quite friendly. A friend in need, one might even say.”

“Piss off,” Jaime grumbled.

But Brienne smiled, and beamed at Jaime. “He is, Gen. He really is.”

**~~~~~~**

Gendry was actually not half bad -- a whole sight better than fucking Stark, anyway.

The conversation came easily -- didn’t seem forced, and Gendry seemed to be a particular favorite of the barmaid, so their glasses never were less than half full. They talked of acting, and inspiration, and the pressures of the business, and, of course, Brienne -- the conversation actually becoming quite serious with Gendry admitting that he had been on set and watching, when Brienne’s accident had happened.

“She dropped like a stone, man,” he said, shaking his head seriously. “I thought it was over. I mean, when we heaved that massive piece of plaster and concrete off of her, I didn’t know what we would …” He broke off, shaking his head. “I was scared shitless.”

Jaime nodded in acknowledgement, frowning. “I’m glad you were there, though.”

“Yeah, me too,” Gendry said seriously. He looked over to Brienne, watching her for a few moments. “But she seems to have recovered fine. No lasting effects or anything.”

Jaime turned his gaze to the pool tables.

Brienne was coaching Pod through a shot, correcting his grip, explaining the physics of momentum, and helping him line up correctly.

He shot, and the ball ricocheted off the back wall and sunk two in the side pocket.

Brienne raised her arms in celebration, hugging Pod proudly, as he jumped up and down, shrieking in glee.

Grinning, even though he was now behind, Robb came over to high five the boy, before slinging his arm around Brienne and kissing her cheek fondly.

She laughed and gave him a squeeze -- and Jaime sighed and took a gulp of his beer.

_Fucking Stark._

“He likes her, you know?” Gendry’s voice cut through Jaime’s thoughts.

“No shit,” he grumbled.

“She only thinks of him as a little brother, though.”

“You think?” Jaime looked back to the pool table. Stark’s stupid arm was still around Brienne, although his head barely came up to her shoulders, short, little fucker that he was.

“Yeah. It’s hilarious to watch.” Gendry grinned, nodding his head towards the pool tables. “He’s so mooney over her; and she just doesn’t seem to notice. Willfully misinterprets everything he says and does.”

Jaime smiled at that and took another sip of beer.

“It’s a relief, huh?”

“What?” He looked at Gendry questioningly.

“Well, you like her too, don’t cha?”

“Excuse me?” Jaime frowned.

“Come on, Lannister. I’m not that dense.” Gendry smiled at him challengingly. “You like her. That’s why Stark pisses you off so much.”

“I hardly think…” Jaime protested.

“It’s fine,” Gendry cut him off, reaching across the table to clap Jaime on the shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think she’s noticed. Like I said -- not the most observant, our Brienne.”

“That’s because there’s nothing to notice,” Jaime said peevishly.

_Shit, if other people were picking up on his stupid, little crush, maybe he needed to reign it in a little, before Brienne noticed and ran for the fucking hills._

Gendry took a swig of beer. “If you say so.”

“Brienne and I spent fifteen years despising each other.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Gendry grinned. “The whole world heard. But you know what they say, we don’t get to choose who we love.”

Jaime gaped at him, his face set in an incredulous frown. He took a long pull of his drink, looking back over to where Brienne was contemplating the pool table. She was sizing it up, weighing her next move in very stolid, Brienne-like fashion, Stark still hovering around her like some annoying mosquito. The boy had no chance. He and Davos. Brienne would win the game. She always won.

“No comment, Lannister?”

_What was there to comment on? The kid was nuts. For gods’ sake -- love? No way in hells! Jaime couldn’t even entertain the idea. Shit, Brienne would kill him before she’d consider him as a romantic prospect. No use even going down that road. Besides it was just a stupid crush. Nothing to get all worked up about._

Jaime cocked his head and arranged his mouth into a slightly amused smirk. “Love? Christ, man, either you're insane or totally drunk.”

Gendry held up his glass. “It’s only my fourth.”

“Insane it is,” Jaime proclaimed, raising his cup in a mock toast.

Gendry just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever helps you sleep at night Lannister.” He pushed up from the table. “Come on. We should get over there and try to cock-block Robb before he makes a total fool of himself -- or, even worse, wears Brienne down so much that she agrees to go home with him.”

Jaime choked on his beer, coughing noisily, trying to catch his breath. “You don’t think…?” he sputtered.

“Naw, I don’t think,” Gendry grinned. “But what do I know? I’m totally insane.”

**~~~~~~**

Brienne had quite a hangover the next day. Oh, she was poised and professional, and she nailed all of her scenes; but Jaime could tell that she was hurting a bit. Still, she managed to get through the shoot without most people being the wiser -- unlike Stark, who looked like he had slept in the gutter and who kept wincing at every loud noise. Served him right, the bastard -- although, to be honest, Jaime had had plenty of experience acting through a hangover back in his day.

Jaime didn’t stick around to watch much, however, despite the sheer glee he felt every time they shined the lights on Stark, and the boy visibly paled in response. No, Jaime had actually ended up leaving the set early to go back to his hotel and pack.

It was his last day in Winterfell.

He flew home tomorrow-- back to King’s Landing, back to Dr. Elder and PT and the sad reality of his flagging career. And, honestly, Jaime was a little melancholic about the whole prospect. Which was stupid, because he hated Winterfell. It was just that King’s Landing was so far away from it -- so far away from Brienne and … Well, that was it, really, wasn’t it? It was so far away from Brienne.

Jaime sighed defeatedly. At least she had promised that it would be just the two of them this evening. Dinner out at the hotel restaurant, and then, hopefully, he could talk her into staying a bit -- maybe watch a movie.

She was due any minute now; and Jaime nervously paced to the window and back.

_Gods, why was he so restless? He shouldn’t be so restless. It was just a dinner between friends._

But it was his last night. His last night here. And somehow that seemed to jack up his anxiety exponentially.

Before he could venture too far down that anxiety spiral, there was a knock at the door, and, smoothing his hand down the front of his sports jacket, Jaime went to open it.

“Hey,” Brienne gave him a nod and walked into the room, throwing her coat on the armchair and collapsing tiredly onto the sofa. “My head is fucking killing me.”

Jaime shook his head, sighing. “I told you to stop after your fifth. But you didn’t listen did you? Told me to get stuffed, if I remember correctly.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne groaned. “You don’t know how sorry I am. Seriously.” Suddenly, she looked at him, took in his tie and jacket, and frowned. “How fancy is this place that we’re going to?” she asked warily, glancing down at her jeans and sweater.

“Well, it’s the hotel restaurant; but it’s still pretty fancy.”

“Great,” Brienne groaned, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “That’s just great.”

Jaime sighed and removed his jacket. So much for sampling the wines of Winterfell. Hells, Brienne didn’t look up to sampling anything at the moment, other than a dark room and possibly an ice pack for her head. “How about we skip the restaurant, and I order some room service? Burgers and fries? Milkshakes? We can just eat and watch a movie, maybe?”

Brienne looked up at him from the couch. “Could we?” She smiled, but then bit her lip in chagrin. “Ah, Jaime, I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to a nice, sit-down dinner. I hate to ruin it for you. I’m just feeling like shit warmed over right now.”

“It’s no big deal,” Jaime said, loosening his tie and pulling it off, before unbuttoning the first few buttons of his dress shirt. “Burgers and shakes work just as well. It’s the company that matters.”

Brienne grunted. “I feel like I’ve been a terrible host. Never having any time for you and then getting drunk and ruining your last night with a stupid hangover.”

“It’s fine, Brienne,” Jaime excused.

He called down to the kitchen and placed his order, before coming back to join her on the couch.

“I don’t blame you for having to work. You warned me that it was a terrible time to visit.”

“I’m glad you came, though,” Brienne said, rolling her head to face him and smiling at him faintly.

“Me too.” He mirrored her movement, leaning back against the couch and turning his head to look at her. “Who would have thunk it, huh?”

“Christ, not me,” Brienne snorted. “I thought I had seen the last of you ten years ago when I drove off that bloody set for the last time.”

“Did you know that they’re tearing it down?”

Brienne sat up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jaime explained. “Tyrion just sent me the article. In the next few weeks, I think. They’re razing the whole thing -- all of the buildings.”

“You’re joking?”

Jaime shook his head. “No. I’m serious. Apparently Baelish decided to sell the whole damn compound to a developer. They’re going to build flats or something.” Jaime adjusted his prosthetic, frowning when the apparatus rubbed against his tender flesh.

Brienne grimaced. “Jesus,” she breathed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t think the show had been cancelled for good. I thought they were just taking a break, like they did between Season Thirteen and Fourteen. Hells, the show has been going for over thirty years. How can it just stop?”

“Apparently Baelish is tired of fighting to keep the show on the air.” Jaime waved his hand at the television that was bolted into the opposite wall. “And you know it never returned to the popularity that it had when we were on.”

“Yeah, but it’s an institution,” Brienne protested, indignant. “Think of all the kids who grew up with it -- who grew up with us. You’re telling me that no more kids will walk down those halls? Go to Hot Pie’s? Lose their virginity at The Pit?”

Jaime smiled a sad smile. “I’m telling you that there will be no halls for them to walk down. No fictional virginity to lose -- at The Pit or elsewhere. The whole thing is going to be demolished.”

Brienne fell silent, thinking. “Do you think they’d let us visit one more time?”

“Why the hells would you want to do that?” He looked at her alarmed.

“Because I literally grew up there, Jaime,” she said, almost angrily. “That was my second home from the time I was thirteen to the time I was nineteen. I’d like to see it one more time. Say goodbye.”

“But…” he sputtered, not understanding. “You hated it. You didn’t want to …” he trailed off. Talking about it made him uncomfortable. He had apologized, and she had forgiven him; but it still made him sick to his stomach to think about it.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I hated a lot of it. I did. But, I don’t know…” she turned to him. “Doesn’t it seem wrong not to see it one last time? Say goodbye? Lay those ghosts to rest?”

“But your shooting schedule?” Jaime argued. “Even if we did manage to finagle our way onto the compound before it’s destroyed, when would you have time?”

“I’d make time,” Brienne said seriously. “I’d probably only be able to come for an afternoon, but they’d let me. Contract negotiations are coming up for Season 5. Believe me, they want to keep me happy.”

Jaime shook his head. “You’re serious? If I can set this up, you’d want to visit _Westerosi_? ... With me?”

She smiled. “One last hurrah for Dunc and Roman. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” He looked at her warily.

“I think it’d be good,” she said softly. “I think it’d be good for me. Good for us.”

Jaime inhaled, still unsure. However, before he could voice any more of his concerns, there was a knock on the door; and he went to go sign for the food.

**~~~~~~**

Dinner was good. Probably better than anything they would have had at the hotel restaurant.

Although Jaime was still uncomfortable at the thought of visiting the Westerosi set with Brienne, Brienne’s mood seemed to have lifted. She inhaled the food, her color returning with every greasy mouthful.

A little of the easy comradery of the previous night lingered, even without the alcohol, and Jaime found himself very glad that they had decided on a night in.

Brienne was completely on board with his suggestion of a movie; and, after clearing their plates, they retreated to the couch.

Jaime scrolled through the movie selections and ultimately chose a high-energy action film, knowing full well that, between the hangover and her exhausting shooting schedule, Brienne would probably sleep through most of it.

But she proved him wrong, managing to stay awake, sprawled on his right side, her long legs stretched out in front of her.

He looked over at her from the corner of his eyes. This was nice. Comfortable, even. Almost domestic in its easy normalcy. In fact, Jaime couldn’t remember when he had last felt so calm. So steady. He could get used to this. He could seriously get used to this. Although … it would be nice if his fucking arm would stop throbbing for just a minute or two.

He had worn his prosthesis for five full days now, and his arm was literally aching with the weight of it.

He side-eyed Brienne again.

She wouldn’t mind if he took it off. She was absorbed in the film. Besides, unlike Cersei, she didn’t care whether he wore it or not.

Jaime unbuttoned his sleeve, rolling it back to his elbow, and then set about unfastening the prosthesis from his arm. He pulled it off and then removed the fabric guard covering his stump that was stained and crusty with dried fluid. His stump underneath was red and raw, scabbing where it had bled.

_Christ. He hadn’t realized it was so bad._

“Shit, Jaime. What happened?” Brienne sat up and gestured to his arm. “Did your prosthesis do that?”

Jaime batted her hand away, bringing his stump up eye-level to examine the damage. It was oozing a bit in places.

_Lovely._

“Surely they can’t expect you to wear the damn thing, if it hurts you like that?” Brienne’s voice was indignant.

“No, they want to do another surgery,” Jaime tried to explain, frowning at the raw spots on his stump. “Taper down the end of my arm, so that the fit is more comfortable. I’ve just been stalling. I don’t want to go under the knife again.”

Brienne nodded sympathetically. “I can imagine.”

“It’s not usually this bad. I’m just not used to wearing the thing for so long.” He tried to massage the muscles of his forearm with his left hand, trying to get them to unclench.

“It looks painful.”

“It’s not so much the cuts,” Jaime explained, “although they’re not fun. It’s the weight of it. It gets super heavy; and my arm’s not used to it. The muscles seize up, and it’s difficult to get them to relax.”

Brienne nodded and held out her hand. “Give it here.”

“What? No. It’s fine.”

Brienne sighed heavily. “Jeez, Jaime. Don’t be a baby.” She gestured to him. “Come on, you can’t be doing much good with that left hand of yours.”

“Brienne…” he said testily.

“Jaime…” she repeated, matching his tone. She closed and then opened her outstretched hand.

Jaime swallowed, looking at her with wide eyes, but eventually relented and reached out his arm.

She started on the muscles just below his elbow, kneading softly, letting his stump rest in her lap.

Jaime couldn’t stop the flush of blood that splashed up his neck and into his face.

However, she only smiled at him and continued her work. After a few minutes, Brienne’s gaze turned back to the screen, where the main characters were putting the finishing touches on their plan for the big bank heist; however, Jaime couldn’t pull his eyes away from Brienne’s fingers, as they worked up and down his arm, pressing on his sore muscles tenderly.

He tried very hard to be silent, to swallow the groans of pain and relief, as she worked the bunched muscles; but occasionally a soft grunt would slip out, and the pressure of Brienne’s fingers would lighten in response.

When she reached what had once been his wrist but was now the ropy and chaffed scar tissue that marked the end of his normalcy, Jaime pulled back instinctively.

“Does it hurt?” Brienne asked, concerned. “I was trying to avoid the abrasions.”

Jaime colored. “No, no. It’s just… well, gross. You don’t have to ...”

She looked at him, puzzled.“It’s fine.”

“Yeah, sure, if you’re into gore and mutilation,” Jaime joked. “Grindhouse flicks and death metal, maybe?”

Brienne gave him an incredulous look. “I hope you’re just joking.”

Jaime tried to smile, but his smile twisted into a sad grimace. “Look. I’ve accepted it. I’ve had to. But I also know how horrifying it is. It makes people uncomfortable. Hells, it makes me uncomfortable.”

Brienne frowned severely at that. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

She held out her hand and waited.

“Seriously, Jaime. It’s just part of you -- like your height or your eyes or your ridiculously pretty hair.”

“You like my hair?”

She shook her head. “Don’t be vain. Give it here.”

Jaime snorted out a laugh and tentatively placed his stump back in Brienne’s open palm.

“Besides,” she said, softly kneading the flesh around the scar tissue, being careful to avoid the red patches, “I, for one, happen to like scars.”

“Oh, please,” Jaime protested, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me that scars are sexy. That’s what all the nurses tried to tell me after the amputation. As if women would see this horror show that used to be a perfectly good hand and be instantly turned on. It’s total bullshit, and you know it.”

Brienne looked at him and shook her head. “No, not sexy exactly,” she mused, half paying attention to the television. “But admirable.”

“Admirable? What the hells are you talking about, Brienne? How can a scar be admirable?”

She shrugged, turning back towards him and reaching up a hand to softly finger the raised line on her cheek. “I don’t know … shows that we survived, I guess.”

Jaime coughed roughly; and Brienne turned her face back towards the television.

It was the best scene in the whole fucking movie, in Jaime’s opinion. A tour de force of green screen action, stunt coordination, and sheer, fucking, cinematic balls. However, Jaime could only sit there on the couch frozen.

On screen, the protagonist finally found the enemy’s lair and was storming in, guns a blazing. But Jaime’s eyes were fixed on Brienne’s pale, freckled hand, carefully massaging the rough end of his stump.

Holy shit.

Gendry was right.

And Jaime was totally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you heard “Every Other Freckle” by alt-J? If not, you should check it out. It’s a little sweet, a little edgy, a little medieval-ish, and a whole lot suggestive -- very much like myself (kidding -- I’m not that sweet).🤣
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support of this complicated and seemingly never ending story. Your feedback and encouragement completely brightens my day -- which is saying a whole lot, when my days are mostly filled with smoke and fire and falling ash. Thank you for your kindness. 💖
> 
> PS: This did not get a final edit. I was too busy drowning my sorrows after yesterday’s bad news (peace be upon her). Sorry for any mistakes. Also, while “Every Other Freckle” was the chapter song; the Dunc and Roman scene was inspired by “Laundry Room” by the Avett Brothers.


	19. Longshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime does some soul searching. Brienne panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: This chapter contains a very mild scene of somewhat questionable consent. It’s nothing overt; but, if this is a trigger for you, mind how you go.

**“Longshot”**

**Catfish and the Bottlemen**

**Go ahead and tell me**   
**You’ve got all you want**   
**Fiver says you're wrong**   
**And I suppose you've come down to help me**   
**Move things along**

**And we lapped it up, and we're wise enough to know**   
**How it goes, forgive me, honey**   
**But we're wise enough to know**   
**How it goes, forgive me, honey**   
**'Cause we know this feeling all a little too well**

**Listen, the distance between us,**   
**Could've took a while**   
**Once we closed that difference,**   
**You’d turn up like a friend of mine**   
**Every once in a while, the little things make me smile as if**   
**One of our longshots paid off**   
**One of our longshots paid off**

**~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

“I think I’m in love with Brienne.”

Jaime turned from the window, where he’d been hovering restlessly for the first twenty minutes of his appointment, to face Dr. Elder full on.

Dr. Elder simply raised his face placidly from his notebook. He was dressed all in gray this session. Gray slacks, a soft gray shirt, dark gray tie --his silver hair, a bit sparse on the top, completing his monochromatic look.

“You think or you know?”

“I know... I … uh, I think?”

“OK,” Elder acknowledged.

“OK?” Jaime asked, amazed and more than a little pissed off.

He crossed to the couch and took a seat, reaching forward to pick up a box of tissues that Elder had set out on the coffee table.

_Christ, was Elder expecting him to cry again? Why were the tissues placed here, directly in front of the place where Jaime usually sat -- just waiting for him to break down? And it was one of those big boxes too. Industrial sized. And not the kind in the colorful packaging with the soft patterns of flowers and butterflies and shit. No, this was the kind that came in the stark, utilitarian, gray box. For serious criers who had no time for butterflies and shit. Much like Elder, himself, come to think of it._

_Well, butterflies or not, Jaime wouldn't be needing the stupid, industrial tissues this time, would he? No, no, Jaime had more important things to do today than to talk about his mother and his accident and his awful childhood. He had more important things to do than to cry like a fucking baby -- like figure out how he was supposed to cope with this huge, new feeling that he seemed to be suddenly choking on._

_Was it love? It felt like it._

_Yes, definitely love, right?_

_Maybe?_

“OK?” Jaime huffed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What would you like me to say, Jaime?”

Jaime frowned. “I don’t know, how about, ‘How shocking, Jaime!’ or ‘It’s about time, Jaime,’ or ‘Do you have a death wish, Jaime?’”

“A death wish?” Dr. Elder questioned. “That’s an interesting choice of words. I think you’ve used it before.” Elder flipped through his notes pensively. “Ah, yes, here it is -- so why a death wish?”

“Because nothing can happen,” Jaime groaned defeatedly, leaning his head back against the couch and sighing dramatically. He closed his eyes, his face resigned.

“All right.”

Jaime’s eyes blinked open, and he sat up. “All right?”

“Well, if you’ve determined that nothing can happen then I think it’s best we …”

“Since when do we listen to me?” Jaime cried testily. “Since when are my determinations considered at all logical?”

“All right, Jaime," Dr. Elder placated.

Jaime tsked through his teeth in irritation.“You’re off your game today, Elder. Honestly, I expected a little bit more.”

_Shit. This was ridiculous. He didn’t need Elder to confirm his stupid fears. He needed Elder to tell him that he was being dramatic -- overthinking things yet again -- that he was all fixed and that Brienne would be lucky to have someone like him. And yet here the tiresome man was agreeing with him -- saying ‘all right’ and “OK’ and trying to change the subject._

“I don’t play games, Jaime,” Elder replied calmly; and Jaime frowned.

Dr. Elder paused and looked down at his notes. “So I take it, by your reaction then, that you want something to happen?” He waved his hand vaguely in Jaime’s direction. “Between you and Brienne?”

“Of course, I want something to happen,” Jaime replied roughly, the fingers of his left hand tightening around the box of tissues, denting the stiff cardboard. “Jesus, man, I just told you that I’m in love with her...at least, I think I am. Maybe.” He sighed again. “But there’s no way she would ever have me.”

“She’s told you that?”

“Well, not in so many words. She doesn’t have any clue I feel anything. She thinks we’re just friends.”

“Just friends?” Elder repeated, looking at Jaime curiously, before quickly writing something down in his notebook. “That’s quite a dismissive way of referring to it. Haven’t you spent most of this year trying to become Brienne’s friend?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jaime said in frustration, his hand tightening even more.

_Shit. He was going to destroy this fucking box, if he weren't careful._

He set the slightly crumpled box on the couch cushion next to him. “Of course, I’m happy that we’re friends. It’s the whole reason I can’t tell her how I feel. Because I don’t want to mess up what we have. I don’t want to mess up the friendship. It’s just … now that I’ve realized how I feel about her… it’s just hard to be satisfied with just … well, friends, you know?” Jaime pulled on his hair roughly. “It’s ridiculous. I should be happy, right?” he said frowning. “Gods, I’m a selfish bastard for wanting more, aren’t I?”

Dr. Elder ignored the question. He ignored all questions like that, much to Jaime’s annoyance. “Have you considered communicating what you are feeling to Brienne?”

“Fuck no! Of course I haven’t!” Jaime laughed; however his voice was alarmed. “Have you not been listening to a word I’m saying? I’m not going to ruin everything -- all that trust between us.”

“You’re going to have to explain that reasoning to me, Jaime,” Dr. Elder said patiently. “How would being honest about your feelings ruin the trust between you? Wouldn’t it be better than lying about your feelings?”

“Gods, you don’t get it,” Jaime groaned.

“Get what?”

Rubbing his jaw contemplatively, Jaime assessed the good doctor. “Is there by any chance a Mrs. Elder? Have you dated? Dealt with women at all?”

Elder remained unfazed and unforthcoming, looking at Jaime blankly.

“Fine,” Jaime sighed. “If Brienne thought that I was attracted to her in that way, she’d run for the goddamn hills and never look back.”

“Why would she do that?”

Jaime gaped at him. “Are you serious?” He waved his hand towards Elder’s notebook. “You wrote it all down in there. All the sordid details. You even had to get a new notebook last month, your third, if my count isn’t off. Is it just that you have so many patients that you can’t keep us all straight?”

Again, Elder gave Jaime a neutral look and simply waited.

Groaning in frustration, Jaime continued. “I treated her like crap. I was a terrible person -- still am a terrible person, most times. And she’s… hells, Brienne’s the best person I know. Why would she want to be saddled to this?” He picked up the crumpled tissue box again and pointed it at himself accusingly.

“Does Brienne agree with that assessment? Does she think you’re a terrible person?”

Jaime shrugged, frowning.

Elder flipped through his notes again. “You’ve said in the past that she’s forgiven you,” he continued. “Are you doubting that now?”

“No. She’s forgiven me,” Jaime admitted flatly, looking at the dented box in disgust. “Given me a second chance to prove myself.” Suddenly, he looked up at Elder, raising his eyebrows in challenge. “But that doesn’t mean she’s going to want to fuck me.”

Elder didn’t react. Not even a slight twitch of a muscle. “That’s what you want?”

Jaime coughed, feeling the hot blush creep up his neck.

_Shit, he had meant to discomfit Elder, shake him out of the bland neutrality that seemed to be running like blood through the old man’s veins; and it had backfired._

“Well… yeah. Partly. Gods, is that bad? Is that just another example of how terrible I am? She forgives me for all the bullshit I’ve done, and I just want to fuck her?”

“What do you think?”

Jaime threw the tissue box back down on the coffee table, where it sat, awkwardly smushed in on one side. “I don’t know,” he groaned. “I mean, I’d love to forget it. Just go back to being totally unaware that there’s anything there besides friendship. But now that I know, it’s all I fucking think about, which is stupid because it can’t happen. It. Can’t. Happen.”

“Hmm...” Dr. Elder mused, flipping through the pages of the notebook and pausing to read something.

“Let me ask you this, Jaime -- could all of this have anything to do with Cersei?”

“Cersei?” Jaime said, puzzled.

“Yes. It hasn’t been so long since that relationship ended; and it was a significant relationship. The most significant relationship of your life, at least romantically. You suddenly find yourself alone for the first time in a very long time. Is it possible that maybe you’re just craving human connection -- touch, intimacy -- and Brienne is the closest person to you?”

Jaime looked at him in amazement. “That relationship ended months ago. Years, if we’re being honest. And what I feel for Brienne is nothing like I felt for Cersei.”

“Explain, please.” Elder turned to a fresh page in his notebook; and Jaime rolled his eyes.

“What I felt for Cersei was … hells, I know you’re writing your little novel there, Elder, but I’m not that good with words. It was ... uh, hot, I guess and ... unstable -- like wildfire. We fucked and fought and hated each other and shouted at each other and made up and did it all over again. It was … addicting, and the intensity of it was unhealthy -- for both of us. With Brienne …”

Dr. Elder looked at him.

“I don’t know. I just want to be good enough for her. I want to be worthy of her.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his hand. “Christ, that sounds pathetic, but it’s true. I don’t want her to be anything but happy. I mean, why should she be tethered to someone who reminds her of the past -- who used to be so awful to her?” He sighed again, defeatedly. “I don’t want that for her. I guess I don’t want me for her.”

“And what does she want?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jaime said miserably. And then, when Dr. Elder still surveyed him, “Why are you asking me?”

“Well, you talk a great deal about what you want _for_ Brienne. But what does Brienne want? Did she tell you that she doesn’t want anything more than friendship with you.”

Jaime shook his head vehemently. “I told you already -- I didn’t ask her. And I’m not planning to, either, so you can spare me the pep talk.”

“All right,” Dr. Elder said. “But don’t you think she should be able to make up her own mind about it? Be given the option? You deciding what she feels and wants, without letting her answer for herself seems somewhat unfair. What if Tyrion just decided what you wanted, without giving you the chance to make up your own mind?”

Jaime huffed out a laugh. “Tyrion rarely gets his way. I outrank him in age, size, and family position.”

“All right. What about your father, then? How would you feel if your father just determined what you wanted, without giving you the chance to make your own decisions?”

“Dirty pool, Elder!” Jaime tried to joke, but suddenly found he didn’t have the stomach for it. “You know damn well that you just described my entire childhood and most of my adult life.”

Elder simply stared at him blandly.

“All right, all right,” Jaime grumbled after a stare-off. “Your point is taken. Brienne should make her own decisions. But I think you are missing the crux of the issue, here. What if I tell her, and it fucks everything up? What if I declare my feelings, and it ruins everything between us?”

“What if it does?”

“Shit. This is not helping,” Jaime muttered grimly, jumping up to pace towards the window again. “Jesus, man, you’re supposed to help me with my anxiety, not jack it up.”

“Jaime, you know as well as I do that life is a series of choices,” Elder began calmly, “and those choices have consequences. You chose to behave badly towards Brienne all those years ago. You suffered the consequences. You could say that you are still suffering. You chose to call her after your accident, which brought her back into your life. You chose to open yourself to her -- to apologize -- to work to be a better man, which resulted in the two of you becoming friends. So now you will have to choose whether or not to tell her about your feelings. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that choice won’t have consequences, good or bad. It will. You know that. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

Jaime let his head fall, resting against the big, bay window of Elder’s office. He watched the pedestrians, far below, walking to and fro, their tiny, dark figures disappearing into the shadows of the buildings. They looked so small. So insignificant. Down there with all of their problems and issues and loves and losses. For a minute, Jaime felt small too. Too small for all of these feelings currently raging inside of him.

“What do you think I should do, though?” he asked finally, shaking himself out of his stupor. “In your expert opinion, what do you think I should do?”

“I think you should do what your mind and heart tell you is right.”

Jaime groaned, turning from the window and running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Hells, Elder, you are just about as helpful as a Magic Eight Ball. Why not just say that ‘the outlook is unclear’ or some shit like that. Really, with as much as I pay you, you should be giving me some concrete advice, not these non-answers.”

“Jaime, what makes you think that they are non-answers? You have all the answers. I can’t make your decisions for you. That’s like you wanting to make Brienne’s decisions for her.”

“Ah hah!” Jaime cried, advancing towards the couch to perch on the edge of it. Once more, he picked up the crumpled box of tissues and pointed it at Elder. “So you _DO_ think I should say something? Tell Brienne how I feel?”

“I said no such thing.”

“But you implied it,” Jaime insisted stubbornly.

“Jaime, I don’t imply. You know that.”

“So then you’re saying …?” Jaime prodded.

“I’m saying that you have all the answers already. You just need to listen to yourself.”

Jaime exhaled tiredly and sagged back against the couch, his hand releasing the box, letting it fall towards the floor with a dull thud.

_He didn’t have the answers. He didn’t have any fucking answers. And, even if he did, the very last person he would trust to advise him in a time like this was himself._

“Christ, Elder,” Jaime muttered defeatedly. “You really are the most annoying asshole ever in the history of annoying assholes. You know that, don’t you?”

Elder simply smiled his bland, little smile, blue eyes blinking from behind his spectacles, as he turned to a new notebook page. “Be that as it may, Jaime, in this case, I might ask you to consider the wisdom of my great niece, age nine, who often likes to say, ‘it takes one to know one.’”

Jaime cracked a smile at that and bent down to pick up the box of tissues.

**~~~~~~**

  
**Three Days Later:**

Brienne rolled over in bed, trying to push the tangled covers off of her body.

Gods, it was warm.

Why was it so warm?

She squirmed to try to get away from the heat, to find a cool patch of sheets, when, suddenly, she felt arms snake around her from behind and the hard bulk of a body snuggle close.

“What…?”

“Shh.” A hot puff of air brushed by her ear, causing her to immediately still her movements.

She lay there frozen, as Jaime’s head wormed its way into the crook of her neck, his wet lips sliding up to caress her ear, to suck gently on the lobe, pulling on it hungrily. “It’s OK. I promise.”

Brienne felt her heartbeat quicken. “Jaime?” she said hoarsely, her brain still muddled from sleep. She could smell him, that expensive cologne he wore, the scent of cedarwood, musk, and his own skin -- warm and rich.

He moved his head, the scratch of his stubble rough against her jaw.

Brienne’s eyelids clicked open at that, and she blinked to try to focus.

It was bright in the closeness of the trailer.

Jaime held her firmly, but she could turn her head enough to shift her gaze up to where the moon and the stars were shining from above, emitting a blinding incandescence, intense in its milky brightness.

She blinked again, holding her body still and frozen, as Jaime’s hands began to wander.

“What are you doing?” she managed to croak past the sleep that had accumulated in the back of her throat.

But Jaime’s mouth was too preoccupied, too full of the skin of her neck -- of her jaw -- her shoulder -- to answer.

She whimpered softly, as she felt Jaime’s hands slide up her rib cage, slipping around her breasts, his fingers tightening, grasping, his body pushing into hers from behind.

As disoriented as she was, Brienne couldn’t control the involuntary thrust of her body backwards, into his solid hardness; and that was all the invitation Jaime needed.

In a movement so quick it had her stunned, he rolled her over onto her back, ripping off her t-shirt, climbing onto her, his legs and arms braced on either side of her, to assault her lips, her jaw, her throat.

She watched the pale, shimmering light hook onto the gold of his hair, as he licked a hot stripe down her chest to her stomach, and began wetly mouthing each of her hip bones until she was writhing beneath him helplessly.

“Do you like that, Brienne?” Jaime murmured, lifting his face from her stomach, a thin, silver thread of saliva catching the bright moonlight, as he pulled his lips from her body.

It looked obscene.

He looked obscene, his golden skin glowing in the weirdly disconcerting light.

“Yes,” she breathed, before her mind could catch up to her mouth.

In response, Jaime pushed his lower body down into hers with purpose.

“And that?”

“Yes,” she thought she said, but she couldn’t be sure.

The room was tilting dangerously, the stars and the moon dipping down close -- too close -- as if they were low hanging fruit. She closed her eyes before the brightness could blind her.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Jaime whispered, his tongue now playing against the divots of her rib cage. She felt his teeth tease her skin and couldn’t control the tightening and contracting of her body’s response.

“Yes,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed, as he moved, his body rising and falling like the waves of stars streaking in the sky.

“For so long.” His palms slid down her arms and into her open hands, and he threaded his fingers through hers, bending her arms up, up over her head, pinning them together by the headboard.

And Brienne let him. Let him bare her body to him -- stretch her out and open her up, as if she were one of the constellations in the black night.

She felt him move into her then -- his body dipping down into her own, and she lost track of time, her senses overwhelmed by the bright glory of him -- his muscled arms, the hard planes of his stomach, his narrow hips, his slick skin, the fall of his silky hair, the soft fullness of his breasts rubbing against her chest.

Wait?

What?

Brienne’s eyes blinked open and were immediately met with the green, narrowed, cat eyes of Cersei Baratheon, staring down at her, a curve of a smile on her red, wet lips.

“What?”

Brienne tried to shake her wrists out of Cersei’s grasp, tried to bring her arms down to cover herself; but Cersei tightened her long fingers around them, her sharp fingernails digging into Brienne’s flesh painfully.

“Shh,” Cersei echoed, dipping her head down to kiss each of Brienne’s clavicles, the soft fall of her golden curls tickling Brienne’s chest and neck. “It’s OK.”

“But Jaime... Where…?” Brienne croaked, but then coughed when her mouth was suddenly filled with golden hair.

The fingers tightened on her wrists, as Cersei lowered her slick mouth to Brienne’s ear.

“Oh, my darling girl,” she cooed, still moving her body into Brienne’s in a sensual rhythm. “You are so pathetic. So sad. Having sex dreams about him? About the man who hated you? Tormented you? Are you really that desperate?”

“No, I …” Brienne tried to explain, through her mouth of hair.

“Shh, love. I think you are. I think you really are that desperate aren’t you? Best just to admit the truth.”

Cersei’s tongue flicked out to circle the shell of Brienne’s ear. “Do you like that, Brienne?”

“Jaime... where ...” Brienne tried to say, but her tongue was tangled in Cersei’s golden hair.

Her mind groggy and slow, Brienne glanced down to watch Cersei, her body still moving, moving, in waves, her breath whispering over Brienne’s skin, her sharp teeth nipping and biting at Brienne’s flesh, pain and pleasure and guilt and shame mixing and melding together until it …

Brienne’s hips shot up involuntarily, as the moon and stars descended, swirling and flashing -- too close -- too close.

She cried out.

After, Brienne lay panting, trying to regain feeling in her body -- trying not to let the moon and the stars swallow her up.

Finally after years of it, she opened her eyes again.

From above her, Cersei smiled a triumphant smile and tightened her grip on Brienne’s wrists. “Was it good, darling? Was it everything you ever hoped for?” Her voice was steely, mocking, but she dipped her head to kiss each of Brienne’s eyelids and then her mouth, the ghost of a breath playing across Brienne’s lips. “Really, it’s so sad. So, so sad. You need to wake up, Brienne. Wake up.”

Brienne shot up in bed, panting.

_What the actual fuck?_

Did she just have a sex dream about Jaime? And about Cersei freaking Baratheon?

_Shit, shit, shit. She was going insane._

Brienne reached out a shaking hand to grab her pillow and bring it up her face.

She screamed into it.

Loudly.

Twice.

But it did nothing to make her feel any better.

_What the hells was wrong with her?_

She reached a hand to her rapidly beating heart. Her t-shirt was drenched from sweat and clinging to her.

_Gross._

Grunting in disgust, she crawled across the bed and rose on shaking legs to change.

_Gods, she was pathetic. Truly pathetic._

It was just stress.

Probably.

Most likely.

Wasn’t it?

The stress of work, of trying to finish up this season. The stress of stalled contract negotiations. The stress of pushing her body to its physical limits in order to do right by her character. And, of course, the stress of dealing with Jaime. Oh, not like Jaime was stressful to be around -- not any more -- not a lot, anyway. However, his last visit has been … weird, to say the least. The way he had demanded her attention, almost possessively. The way he had looked at her, as if he were constantly making his mind up about her, and he wasn’t quite happy about it. It had been… weird.

And then, when she had suggested visiting the _Westerosi_ set, Jaime had been so reluctant, so nervous, so far from the normally cocky, self-assured Jaime Lannister that it had given her pause. She had almost wanted to take it all back. He shouldn’t be nervous about visiting the set. If anyone should be nervous about it, it was her. But he had tried to talk her out of it, looking at her in that weirdly confused way.

Lord. The whole fucking thing was confusing. He was confusing. But then when hadn’t he been. Even when he had been a straight-up asshole, he had been a confusing one.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was just the visit to the set, returning to the place and time of Dunc and Roman that had caused her to dream of Jaime in that way. Her feelings were getting caught up with Dunc’s feelings, tangled together until she wasn’t sure where Roman started and Jaime stopped. It was known to happen to actors. It hadn’t happened to Brienne before. _Gods no!_ But, again, she had been under a whole lot of pressure lately; and Jaime had been so … weird. And confusing

Brienne shuddered, as she remembered how her body had reacted to Jaime in the dream.

This was ridiculous. It’s not like she and Jaime hadn’t been physically close before. Hells, they had done about a million love scenes together. But that had been work. Just work. And this had been … definitely not work.

She brought her hands to her burning cheeks.

Christ, dream Cersei had it right. Brienne was pathetic. Totally and completely pathetic.

A sex dream?

About Jaime Lannister?

Oh, it’s not that Brienne didn’t find Jaime attractive. Of course she did. She had eyes, didn’t she? The man was ridiculously attractive. Brienne had even harbored a small, secret crush on him, in the early days, before she had known how awful he was. However, that crush had fizzled out right about the time that Jaime had looked at her with distaste and had tried to change his character’s storyline so that he wouldn’t have to have anything to do with her.

He had been awful. He and Cersei fucking Baratheon.

Brienne sighed and let the memory go, pulling on a dry t-shirt and throwing the wet one in the hamper. She splashed cold water on her face, looking at her haggard reflection in the mirror.

_Christ, Jaime Lannister?_

Well, it wasn’t like he was awful anymore -- Jaime. He was … well, he was… Honestly, she didn’t exactly know what he was. He was her friend, right? Her good friend? She trusted him.

_She did._

_Of course, she did._

_Didn’t she?_

It’s just that he was so confusing. Confusing and annoying. Although all those little annoyances, didn’t seem so annoying now. No, on the whole, she looked forward to seeing him -- to talking to him -- to being around him. And she didn’t have to be careful around him any more -- didn’t have to guard herself and watch her back, anticipate his next attack. She could just be.

He knew her.

He had seen it all. All of her.

_Shit … he had seen all of her._

Brienne shook her head in exasperation, remembering back to being stretched out before him in the dream, Jaime’s mouth on her skin, his heated gaze, truly seeing all of her.

She needed to get a grip. She shouldn’t think of him like that. Couldn’t think of him like that. Letting Jaime back into her life was one thing. Letting him into her dreams .. into her thoughts was completely out of the question. Their history together made it completely out of the question. Yes, Jaime was a different man -- a better man -- but that didn’t change their past. All the things he had done. The way he had treated her.

Besides, any man who could love someone like Cersei Baratheon would never look twice at someone like her. Nor would she want him to.

And that right there was reason enough to dismiss the stupid, fucking idea categorically and without argument. If therapy had taught Brienne anything, it was that she had to take care of herself first. She had to make sure that she was safe and cared for and protected. And any man who’d enter into and sustain a relationship with someone like Cersei was not the man for her. Not like Jaime had any interest in being the man for her. Lord, what the hells was she going on about? The man for her? Honestly, one inappropriate sex dream and suddenly she’d lost her entire mind.

No, as terrifying (and disturbingly sexy) as dream Cersei had been, she was right -- Brienne needed to wake up. She needed to wake up right now.

Unfortunately, Brienne also needed to sleep. Her stupid call was at six AM.

Groaning, she crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up and willing her mind to erase all thoughts of Jaime -- of his body, the brush of his hair against her skin, the slickness of his tongue on her throat, the whisper of his breath in her ear...

“Shit!” Brienne cried into the empty trailer and rolled over to bury her head under her pillow in shame.

**~~~~~~**

**The Next Morning:**

Brienne finally succumbed to a restless sleep around four and was awoken by the pounding of one of the PAs on her trailer door.

_Crap, crap, crap. She had slept past her alarm._

The rest of the morning went by in a blur, as Brienne found herself rushing through hair and make-up, trying to inhale a granola bar and a paper cup of lukewarm coffee in between applications of foundation, dirt, and purple make-up bruising -- before being pushed onto the set, still trying to fasten the ties of her costume with stiff, clumsy fingers.

Once on her mark, Brienne straightened her jerkin, smoothing a hand down the front of herself, blushing when she remembered another hand smoothing down her body.

 _“No, no, no -- none of that,”_ she mentally chastised herself. _Be professional. Be freaking professional, Brienne._

Robb was looking at her strangely, so she gave him an assuring smile, willing the blush to dissipate.

**“All right. Quiet on the set. Rolling. Action.”**

  
**~~~**

**_Knights of the Seven Kingdoms_ , Season 4, Episode 22: “Hail Mary”**   
**Scene 31, Take 1 A-mark**

_Arianne paces the length of the cabin restlessly, five steps to the bulk-head, five steps to the bridge door, five steps back -- over and over again like some caged beast._

_At the table, bent low over the battered scrolls, are Brynden, Ser Gareth, Ser Symon, and Cedric, Symon’s … well, squire is the most accurate descriptor, although the boy is hardly a squire. Besides, though Symon pays for his keep, the lad has firmly attached himself to Arianne, following her around like a lost puppy._

_He watches her now, worried, as she paces back and forth, back and forth. It does not look good._

_“It’s impossible,” Ser Symon mutters, looking up at Arianne. “We won’t survive. Not a chance in hells.”_

_Arianne stops abruptly. “What other choice do we have, Ser Symon? We lost most of the battalion in the last ambush.” She grimaces, remembering the brave young men who had signed on to accompany her in this mission, pledging their service, their fidelity, not knowing that it would be the last oath that they would ever swear._

_She shakes her head. There will be time to deal with the guilt and the grief later. Or there won’t. Either way, she must keep focused on the present._

_“We could go back,” Symon says. “Beg the Council to reconsider the mission -- or, at least, to bolster our forces with men and ships.”_

_Brynden looks up from the scrolls. “Hah,” he laughs sharply. “I like our chances better with the Burned Men.”_

_Cedric looks at him with wide eyes._

_The Burned Men are the stuff of nightmares. The stories that parents tell their children to keep them from straying from their beds at night. ‘Be a good lad or the Burned Men will come and take you as one of their own.’ ‘Stay quiet and still or they will come and take a piece of you.’_

_Yet for all of the stories, no one really knows how the Burned Men came to be. They have always simply … been, hovering menacingly on the fringes of the Kingdoms, just waiting in the dark to strike._

_No one knows much about them._

_No one has survived an encounter with them to tell the tale._

_And yet, the stories are whispered by wrinkled, old grannies and stern fathers and mothers alike, no one really sure if the tales are grounded in truth. There are stories of mutilation, of burning pieces of themselves in brutal ceremonies, of scarring themselves -- their faces and arms -- with hot steel, pins and arrows, swords and knives._

_There are stories of brutality -- of a savageness that flies in the face of humanity. Stories of prisoners captured and tortured until they no longer have any vestiges of their old selves and become animals, delighting in depravity and violence and blood. Blood. In the stories, there is always blood._

_It was said that once, long ago, the Burned Men had a colony on the mountain planet of Arryn. However, they now roam the Shadowlands, Beyond the Wall, North of the Gift, in great ships, lashed together by creaking chains -- each ship marked by dripping, bloody hand prints -- a floating city of wrecked horror, ambushing all unlucky enough to stray into its path._

_Cedric’s face has turned a ghostly shade of white, and Arianne stops on one of her passes to put a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Courage, young Cedric,” she says, stooping down to look him in the eye. “We’ll make a knight out of you yet.”_

_Instantly the boy’s spine straightens, and he blinks the tears back into his eyes. “Yes, my lady, Ser,” he squeaks._

_“It could work,” Ser Gareth chimes in, his finger tracing over the scroll. “If we could board the main ship without detection and smuggle Cedric into the control room. He would just need a minute or two to rewire it, reset the panel. Then it would just be a matter of getting back to an escape pod and launching before it blows.”_

_“Is that all?” Symon says sardonically, running the stubs of his fingers over his short, silver beard. “We just need to find our way onto the main ship, somehow get past all of the mad fucking gits who love pain so much they burn themselves for fun, get the boy into the bloody control room undetected, somehow get to an escape pod, manage to get past all of the security patrols and do all this without being captured or killed or blown up in the explosion?”_

_Cedric’s face has now turned a sickly shade of green; and Arianne shoots her eyes at Symon in warning._

_“What else can we do?” she asks grimly. “We’ve been patrolling this area for a month now and have only succeeded in losing most of our battalion. The Council tasked us with bringing a stop to the Burned Men’s terror, and yet the enemy seems stronger than when we first embarked on this mission.” She grimaces painfully. “All we’ve given them is more ships for their colony, more men for their ranks.”_

_A quiet settles over the company then, as they remember the ships lost, those unlucky soldiers who had been captured in the last skirmish._

_Symon clears his throat gruffly. “My ship,” he mutters, then clears his throat again. “Black Betha … she’s … well, I used her back before I was one of the Seven. Back when I made a living smuggling refugees between the Kingdoms.”_

_Arianne turns to him curiously. Of course, she’s heard of Symon’s checkered past. That someone so … “unknightly” had been accepted into the Order of the Seven had long been the subject of gossip -- even all these years later. Nepotism, some had said. Blackmail, others had insisted. Whatever the truth of the story was, Arianne had never asked; and Symon had never shared._

_“Proceed,” she says and nods for him to continue._

_“She … the ship has a hidden cargo hold, beneath the bridge -- undetectable.”_

_“Thermal imaging?” Brynden asks gruffly._

_“No chance. It’s been fully insulated, its walls and ceiling paneled with dragonglass. No imaging software can detect shit through all of that glass.”_

_Gareth gapes at him; and Symon holds up his hands, the fingers of his right hand short nubs, where they’ve been cut. “I was smuggling people from the colonies, for fuck’s sake, trying to get them to a better life. I couldn’t take the chance of being caught by the White Cloaks. They would have strung me up just for the fun of it.”_

_Gareth has gone silent._

_Brynden looks to Arianne._

_“We could…” she starts; but Symon cuts her off._

_“We …” he gestures to the group of them, “the five of us, could stow away in the cargo hold and wait to be intercepted. They’d want the ship. She’s old, but she’s true. They’d pull us in, no doubt.” He inhales and lets his breath out in a whoosh. “Once in the docking bay of the Mother Ship, we could try to get Cedric to the control room.”_

_Cedric squeaks and then blushes._

_Arianne looks to the boy, leveling a serious gaze at him. “You are sure you know how to rewire the ship, lad, set it self-destruct? You are sure?”_

_Cedric swallows. “Y-y-yes, my lady, Ser,” he stumbles over his tongue and nerves. “My f-f-f-ather wired many like them back h-h-home. I grew up with a soldering iron in my h-h-hand. C-c-c-ould do it in my sleep.”_

_“Good man, Cedric,” Arianne says gravely, and Cedric’s blush now extends to the roots of his hair._

_“From there, it would just be a matter of getting to an escape pod undetected and getting off of the ship before it explodes,” Brynden remarks._

_“Difficult, but not impossible,” Gareth chimes in._

_“Fucking difficult,” Symon says._

_“But not impossible,” Arianne echoes. She looks at them gravely. “I think it is our only hope at this point.”_

_Symon nods in grim acquiescence. “I’ll go ready the ship,” he grumbles begrudgingly, shaking his head angrily at Arianne._

_Doing the right thing pisses him off._

_He always ends up doing it -- the right thing. But it always pisses him off, just the same._

_“She’s docked in the cargo bay.” He turns to Gareth and Cedric. “Come on, you. I could use a hand.”_

_Gareth smiles his easy grin, trying to crack through the tension. But his cheerfulness is out of place in this room of frayed nerves. “Why not?” he tries anyway. “Sounds like a lark, doesn’t it, Ced?”_

_Cedric nods, but his face looks stricken._

_“On the morrow, then?” Symon asks, turning back from the doorway._

_“On the morrow,” Arianne replies and nods._

_She tries not to look too closely at them, these brave men so willing to give up their lives because she asked them to._

_On his way out of the room, Cedric stops by Arianne, tugging shyly at her sleeve. “My lady, S-s-s-er, you will be there with me?” he stutters, his face red, as if the words hurt to admit. “On the m-m-morrow?”_

_She smiles one of her rare smiles and reaches out to tousle the boy’s hair. “Every step of the way, young Cedric. I will be there.”_

_He nods bravely, his mouth trembling, and then turns to follow Symon and Gareth out of the room._

_And then there is just the two of them._

_She and Brynden._

_The air shifts, the room holding its breath._

_“Ser Brynden?” she says._

_“Ser Arianne,” he replies, his tone faintly mocking. He sighs. “We shall die, you know?”_

_“I know,” she says simply._

_He crosses to her, the space between them heating with every step._

_He laughs, a short, stuttering thing. “You know, I always thought that I would be happy if I could only die in the arms of the woman I love. But now,” he breaks off. “Well, now that I’m here, I find that I don’t really have the taste for it. This ...whole dying bit.” He shakes his head. “On further consideration, I’d rather live. Live in the arms of the woman I love. Live and never leave her.”_

_“Brynden…” she pleads. She cannot hear this. Not now._

_He is moving closer, undeterred by her protests._

_“I’m sorry,” she says miserably, as if her words will stop him. “I’m so sorry that I’ve dragged you into this with me. I should have never let you come. I should have forced you to stay. If only I had …”_

_“Hush. You could not have,” Brynden soothes, coming to stand in front of her, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on her hip._

_She closes her eyes, willing her body not to respond._

_“My lady, the only thing worse than facing death at the hands of the Burned Men would be knowing that you were facing death without me.” His fingers tighten, and she tries to shift back. “Better to die in service to love than to live in service to fools.”_

_He looks up at her, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth ... or is it tears?_

_“That sounded quite romantic didn’t it? I practiced it before ... in my chamber.”_

_She smiles, her own eyes filling. “It did,” she whispers. “Very romantic.”_

_“Good,” he murmurs, moving closer to her still._

_“Brynden,” she tries to argue, but he’s pulling her towards him, and her resolve is crumbling the closer he gets._

_He kisses her sweetly -- just a breath of a kiss, a whisper against her lips, and pulls back to look at her._

_She presses her mouth together and reaches inside of her for the last tattered bits of her honor, the small scraps that haven’t been beaten out of her. “We can’t,” she rasps miserably. “You signed a contract. We both swore an oath to the Council.”_

_He leans forward and kisses her forehead, and then her eyelids, and last her lips. His mouth is soft, warm, soothing a bit of the chill that she’s carried with her since she first entered these dark Shadowlands. “Oh, my lady,” he whispers hoarsely. “They make you swear and swear... and then you fucking die anyway.”_

_Her eyes flick open at his blunt words, and she takes a step back out of his embrace, ignoring his expression of hurt._

_Before she can think the better of it, she walks swiftly to the door and pushes the button._

_The metal panel slides down, as the door closes with a clang._

_She turns, pressing her back into the cool, metal slab and breathes in and out. In and out -- allowing her mind to catch up to her heart._

_Finally, she reaches out a hand, scarred and rough and strong. “Come here,” she whispers into the silent room._

_And he does._

_**“Cut!”** _

**~~~~~~**

Brienne tried to put Jaime out of her mind, Lord knows she tried; but he kept stubbornly haunting her thoughts.

Oh, she managed to get through the scene -- managed to get through it just fine. But her blush, every time Robb kissed her, belied her preoccupation.

Robb was grinning at her now, joking about Davos’ poker night and whether she’d opt in, after losing so embarrassingly last time. However, Brienne had to force herself to listen.

_Lord. She needed to get a hold of herself, before it was time to go back and shoot more._

Gendry was halfway through his story about the night he got rip-roaring drunk and ended up playing strip poker with the actors who played the Council of the Seven, when Brienne’s phone went off.

She checked the screen, blushing hard, as Jaime’s name popped up.

“Uh …” she stuttered, feeling her whole face flame. “I should … uh, I should take this.”

“Oooh,” Gendry teased, watching her fluster. “Who’s calling? Does Brienne Tarth have a secret lov-er?”

“What? No!” Brienne cried, fumbling with her phone. “Of course not.” However her face had gone from pink to fuchsia, which made her protests seem weak at best.

Gendry raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Ah. Is that Lannister, by any chance?”

“Um .. yeah,” Brienne muttered. “But he’s not … we’re not...” She held up her phone. “Sorry. Sorry. I just have to take this…”

Grimacing in agitation, Brienne hurried over towards an empty corner of the set, stumbling on a coiled extension cord and almost falling flat on her face.

“Shit,” she muttered, righting herself. And then, “No, no, Jaime. That wasn’t for you." She kicked her foot clumsily to free it from the tangled cord. “Just hold on a sec…”

Robb and Gendry watched her go, Robb’s face falling with every muttered curse and stumbling step.

He let out a heavy sigh, startling when Gendry clapped him on the back sympathetically.

“Sorry, mate. I think it’s a lost cause, there.”

“Yeah,” Robb sighed, his expression resigned. “You might be right.” He looked to where Brienne was currently trying to wedge herself into an empty supply alcove, her face bright red.

“Gods, you hate to see it, though,” Robb muttered despondently, shaking his head. “Such an absolute prat too. And he was so awful to her for so long.” He let out a sad sigh. “Honestly, what could she possibly see in him?”

“Ah, you know what they say, Robby, my boy,” Gendry said sagely. “You don’t get to choose who you love.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “That’s total horseshit and you know it, Gen.”

“I thought it was rather good.”

“Did you get it off of a fortune cookie?”

“Heard it in a movie, I think,” Gendry frowned, trying to remember.

“Sounds like it.” Robb turned his head again, looking over to where Brienne had ensconced herself into the tiny supply nook. “It’s a total shame, though, that.” He nodded towards her. “Seems like such a waste.”

“Yeah, but it’s probably for the best,” Gendry said lightly, squeezing Robb’s shoulder in sympathy. “At the rate you’re going, mate, it’d take years before you got any action.”

Robb gave a begrudging laugh at that. “I know, right? She’d misread all of my moves. I could literally be standing there at attention with all my best bits out, and she’d ask if I’d lost my trousers and then go get them for me, with a pat on the head and a, ‘there’s a good boy, Robby.’”

Gendry grinned teasingly. “Shit, with her obliviousness and your moves, you’d be old and gray before she took you to bed. And by then, you’d be way too old to get it up.”

“Speak for yourself, Waters,” Robb grunted in protest. “The Starks are actually quite virile people -- even in old age.”

Gendry threw an arm around him and steered him away from Brienne and back towards the set. “Ah, sounds like you’ve just written your Tinder profile right there, my friend.”

“Well, it’s a hell of a lot better than ‘we don’t get to choose who we love,’ isn't it?” Robb quipped. “You know you literally choose people on those dating apps, right?”

Gendry held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I admit, it’s not my best material. But give me a break, here. I can’t always be the wise one of the bunch of us. The rest of you have to take turns once in awhile.”

**~~~~~~**

Over in the corner, Brienne crammed herself in the supply alcove at the far end of the set, trying to find some semblance of privacy.

“Sorry… sorry,” she stuttered into the phone, the heat burning in her face at both her ridiculous display in front of the boys and the fact that the stupid dream seemed to be replaying on a loop in her mind ever since Jaime’s name had flashed on her phone. “Let me just get somewhere where I can … uh, talk.”

_Gods, get a hold of yourself Brienne. He doesn’t know about the dream. Jesus. Stop panicking._

“Yeah. It’s fine,” Jaime replied almost tersely.

That gave her pause.

_Was he mad at her?_

_No, no. Why would he be mad at her?_

_He was the one who called her. Besides she hadn’t done anything at all to him. Well, except have a sex dream about him, which was highly inappropriate. Some might say shameful, even. But he didn’t know that -- he would never know that -- not if she had anything to say about it._

“How … uh, are you?” Brienne mumbled stiltedly. She cleared her throat to try to tamp down the panicked rasp.

“Fine,” Jaime said. “You?”

“Fine,” she croaked.

They fell into an awkward silence.

_Great. This was awesome._

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Jaime’s voice startled her, redoubling the flush in her cheeks.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Brienne protested hurriedly. “I mean, I’m shooting. But I’m on a break. You’re fine. I mean, you’re good .. yeah, good.”

_Crap, she was behaving like a raving lunatic. Way to act normal, Brienne. Good thing she was such a good actress, wasn’t it?_

Jaime gave an audible inhale. “Yeah, OK. Well, I just called to tell you that we’re on for next week.”

“What?” Brienne choked. “We're on?” All of a sudden, the image of Jaime, his body very clearly “on,” filled her mind.

“You wanted to visit the set? The _Westerosi_ Compound?” Jaime’s voice was unsure, hesitant.

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah! Awesome!” Brienne cried, relieved. “That’s … well, that’s great, isn’t it?”

_The set! Of course, the set! She had asked Jaime to set it up._

_Oh shit, she had asked Jaime to set it up._

“Is it?” Jaime sounded cautious, almost irritated.

“Of course,” Brienne insisted with false bravado. “It will be good. Good to see it one last time before it … you know … gets knocked … down.”

_Good lord, she sounded like she had another head injury._

“I just worry, Brienne. I mean we couldn’t even watch the show without …” He broke off. “Without bad memories surfacing. I just think …”

“Don’t worry, Jaime,” Brienne said, her desire to reassure him, finally overriding her embarrassment. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I just don’t want you to feel …”

“I won’t,” she promised him. “Seriously, Jaime, I’ve said my piece. We’ve talked. Worked through it. I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me, if I …” She cleared her throat. “If things were still … um like they used to be.”

“OK,” Jaime said, his tone still a bit off. “Well, then we’re set for next Tuesday afternoon, if you can make it.”

“I can make it.”

“You’re sure? I know your shooting schedule is tight, at the moment.”

“I can make it.”

“All right, then,” Jaime said. “I can pick you up at the airport, take you to the set.” He paused for a long moment. “Would you be able to stay and have some dinner at my place, maybe?”

“Maybe?" she stalled. "Dinner is about all I could manage, though.” Brienne bit her lip worriedly. “I’d have to fly back that night. Be ready to shoot the next morning.”

_Was dinner a good idea? Could she get through dinner without bursting into flames in shame?_

“But, you could … make it for dinner, I mean?”

_She could say no. Put a little more distance between herself and the dream before having to spend more time with Jaime. But she would be there anyway -- at the set. A few hours more wouldn’t hurt._

“Yeah, sure.” She transferred her phone to her other hand, rubbing her sweaty palm on her breaches.

Gods, it was hot in here. Why was it so hot in here?

_Oh no. Don’t think of it. Don’t go there, Brienne._

“OK. Good.”

“Good. Yeah. Good.”

Lord, she needed to get off the phone.

_Should she just pretend the break was over and end the stupid call?_

“How’s shooting?” Jaime asked finally, when the silence became too prolonged.

“It’s good. Busy.”

“What do you think of the finale? Did the writers do a good job?”

“Jaime,” Brienne chastised, pulling on the neck of her costume to get some air on her flushed skin. “You know that I can’t talk about it. Top secret stuff.”

“Just promise me there’s not another love scene between you and fucking Stark. I about lost my lunch at the last one.”

Brienne released her collar and frowned, as a new wave of embarrassment washed over her.

_Gods. She was completely pathetic._

Here she was freaking out about having a sex dream about Jaime. And apparently Jaime couldn’t even bear to watch a love scene that she was in without becoming nauseous.

_So damn pathetic._

“If I told you anything, I’d have to kill you,” she tried to joke, but her voice sounded strained and flat even to her own ears. “Besides, no one is making you watch the show, Jaime. You complain about it often enough. Maybe you should just spare yourself the aggravation.”

“But I like watching you work.”

“Could have fooled me,” she said peevishly, almost angry at him now.

_This was stupid. It’s not like she asked to dream about Jaime. He had just appeared uninvited in her dream with his stupid muscles and his stupid skin and his stupid eyes and his stupid ex-girlfriend. Gods, he was annoying._

“I’m sure you’ll be amazing, even in a cheesy love scene.”

“What?”

Suddenly, Brienne flashed back to another love scene. Jaime on top of her, pinning her arms above her head, his mouth wet on her skin.

“Brienne?”

“What?” she choked out.

“I asked if you needed to get back to work.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “Yes. I should. Probably. I … uh should.”

“OK, then. You’ll call me when you arrange your flight? Let me know what time to pick you up?”

“Yes,” she said loudly -- too loudly. “I’ll let you know.”

“All right, then. Good. Well, … have a good day at work.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled. “You too. I mean, you have a good day too.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, Brienne.”

“Yeah. Talk soon. Yeah.”

Brienne pressed end on the call, groaning in disgust and letting her head fall back against the wall.

Damn it! She needed to snap out of this. There was no way she could go on like this. Not if she were seeing Jaime soon.

No, she had to find a way to forget the dream and return things back to normal, unless she wanted to spend the whole visit a brilliant shade of scarlet.

This was Jaime.

Jaime Lannister.

Her friend.

Her ex-nemesis.

The most annoying person on the face of the planet.

Hells, they had been through it all -- shouting matches, fights, general loathing, love scenes, accidents, recovery, tears, worries, confessions, recriminations, forgiveness.

An uncomfortable sex dream couldn’t change all that. No matter how explicit…

And disturbing…

And fucking hot...

_No, no, no. She needed to stop being ridiculous and start being Brienne. Steady, dependable, stoic, salt of the Earth Brienne._

She took a deep breath. She’d get through this scene and then go home and have a shower and a good night’s sleep free from dreams. On Tuesday, she’d visit the set and say goodbye to Dunc and Roman and have dinner with her friend Jaime and leave. And that would be that.

Feeling calmer and remarkably cooler, Brienne extricated herself from the supply alcove and walked back on set.

Everything would be fine.

Just fine.

There was nothing to worry about at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. I feel like we’re living a lifetime of crazy just in the short, two weeks between chapter postings. 
> 
> I mean, what the hell kind of hyperbolic, telenovela of a year is this? 
> 
> Did D&D write the script for 2020, because I feel like we are existing in some highly unrealistic version of a dystopian drama written by a bunch of straight, white guys who insist on throwing in every ridiculous plot point known to man in an attempt to be “edgy” and “subversive”? Pandemic? Climate change? Forest fires? The fall of democracy? Civil unrest? Unjust Grand Juries? Recession? Patriotic fascism? Mass evictions and unemployment? Unhinged debates? COVID in the White House? 
> 
> Dang, throw in couple of dragons, a few “crazy women who need to be killed” storylines, and some idiotic speech on how the person with the “best story” is the most qualified candidate to rule the land (I mean, what else would you look for in a leader?), and you can just call us Season 8 and be done with it.
> 
> Despite all that, somehow I managed to get this chapter posted, even though my power was shut off twice for multiple days at a time due to dangerous fire conditions. Which reminds me, if I ever do miss one of my regular scheduled postings, it’s more than likely due to a power outage (either that or I suddenly went “crazy bananas” and had to be killed by a sympathetic, male protagonist, lol). 
> 
> On a positive note, thank you so much for all of the support that you continue to give this fic. It is the one bright spot in this dumpster fire of a year. 
> 
> Speaking of bright spots, the infinitely groovy Tuliptoes has created a Spotify playlist for "Chemistry of a Car Crash:"
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5R8CEWfhoXCxwhMXuhLsKV?si=yWU0_pNkSma4H_FuWprBpg
> 
> I’m not exaggerating when I say that this story wouldn’t exist without these songs. Check ‘em out, if you’re so inclined; and check out this week’s song by Catfish and the Bottlemen. 
> 
> Thanks again for all of the encouragement and positivity, gang. Keep on fighting the good fight. 
> 
> PS: I patterned the Burned Men after their canon equivalents and added a heavy dose of the Reavers from _Firefly_. Much like poor young Cedric, the Reaver episodes of _Firefly_ still give me nightmares.


	20. The Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne face some ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that the “Westerosi” scenes are written out of order. This chapter's scene comes after “Fadeaway” in chapter 16.

**“The Silence”**

  
**Manchester Orchestra**

**Why do I deserve the science**   
**To feel better about you?**   
**At a loss I lost my cool**   
**I denied that I found you**

**I tried to be a basket case**   
**I did not surprise you**   
**I'm trying to find a signal fire**   
**Let me know when I should move**

**But you, amplified in the silence**   
**Justified in the way you make me bruise**   
**Magnified in the science**   
**Anatomically proved that you don't need me**

  
**All the while you waste away, you're asking**   
**"Did I really need another one to take me down?"**   
**Everybody knows it's something that you had to live with, darling**   
**Nobody's gonna tear you down now**

**There is nothing you keep, there is only your reflection**

**~~~~~~**

**Twelve Years Earlier:**

**_Westerosi_ , Season 23, Episode 14, Scene 34: “The Silence”**

_The storm is loud._

_Dunc can hear it at the very edge of her consciousness, whirling -- spinning -- melding into her restless, unsettled dreams. The push of the wind, the rattling, skeleton branches of the trees, the incessant tapping, tapping, tapping of the rain against her widow -- a steady, rhythm, amplifying in the silence until …_

_Shit._

_Dunc sits up suddenly, breathing hard, the sheets and blankets tangled around her torso._

_There is something outside. Something that is not the rain._

_The tapping intensifies -- a sound like a fist banging on the glass of her window._

_Disoriented, Dunc switches on her bedside light and grabs her phone._

_Crap. This is always how it begins in those awful horror films that Brandon forces her to watch every time it’s his turn to choose the movie. One moment there is a solitary noise in the night -- the next, the axe murderer is charging out of the bedroom closet, and the heroine is toast._

_Dunc stills, listening._

_The wind lashes against the side of the house, beating its fists against the wood and brick. But the tapping is still there -- under the wind -- a regular beat, slower and steadier than the frantic pounding of Dunc’s heart._

_Frowning nervously, Dunc turns on the flashlight on her phone and points it at her bedroom window; but the light of the room and the dark of the night make it impossible to see anything._

_Tentatively, she rises from the bed, throwing back the covers -- poised between bravely going to the window to investigate the sound and running to her parent’s room like a scared, little girl._

_Suddenly there is a muffled cry -- a strangled groan that sounds very much like her name; and Dunc almost pees her pants._

_Gods, gods, gods -- she is going to die right here in her bedroom in her stupid, too-short, Care Bear pajamas._

_A pale face appears at the window, shadowed, melting into the darkness but instantly recognizable._

_Fuck’s sake. It’s Roman._

_Jesus Christ, it’s Roman._

_Dunc lets out a breath of relief, clutching at her heart._

_What the hells is Roman Webber doing outside of her bedroom window, two stories up, in the middle of a torrential downpour?_

_Not stopping to think, Dunc drops her phone and rushes to the window, wrenching it open, pulling on the screen to try to release it. Once it's unlatched, she lets the wet screen fall onto the carpeted floor and reaches out to grasp Roman’s soaking arm and haul him through the window and into her bedroom, before he falls and breaks his stupid neck._

_Dunc is still dulled and confused from sleep and fear, so she simply steps back, looking at him, as he stands there in the weak light of her bedside lamp, dripping onto her bedroom carpet._

_She hasn’t seen him in four days. Four damn days. Hasn’t seen him since she held him in her arms outside of his house and let him rage, let him cry, let him grieve for his terrible, undeserving, shithead of a father._

_Roman hasn’t been to school. Hasn’t called her. Hasn’t returned any of her calls. Not one word. Nothing. Total radio silence._

_According to all of the papers, today was the funeral -- a private ceremony, closed to the public: a celebration of the life and legacy of the man, the myth, the legend, Wyman Webber._

_Dunc hadn’t been invited. Not that she had expected to be._

_She had tried to reach out anyway -- just in case Roman needed her, needed a shoulder to lean on. But he hadn’t responded -- his silence echoing louder than any answer he could have given her._

_But now, he is here. His dark suit drenched, heavy. His blond hair almost black from the rain, plastered against his head like a streaming crown._

_Dunc moves to close the window. The storm is too loud. She can’t think straight in all of this noise._

_Roman watches her carefully. His eyes are red-rimmed, the green of his pupils pronounced._

_He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again when nothing comes out._

_Dunc's eyes fall to his hands, grasped into fists, his knuckles white and bruised._

_There is a coiled rigidness to him. To his body. He’s like a caged animal._

_She's almost afraid to move -- doesn’t want to spook him, send him running away into the storm again. But he is shaking -- violently shaking -- and she knows that she has to do something._

_So she hums in the back of her throat -- a soothing sound -- and approaches him cautiously, reaching up a hand to move a dripping lock of hair out of his face, smoothing it back against his scalp._

_He softens a little, closes his eyes, submitting to her caress._

_Bolstered by his reaction, Dunc inhales and reaches for him again._

_Carefully she removes his jacket, letting it fall in a soggy heap onto the floor._

_Watching him, she works her fingers into the knot of his tie, wiggling until the knot releases. She runs her hands around the circle of his collar, unthreading the fabric and pulling it from his neck, the sodden, dark blue silk dripping onto the carpet._

_Roman’s breath is louder now, ragged -- his shaking more pronounced._

_Swallowing her nerves, Dunc places her left hand on the wet material covering his chest, a steady, calming pressure, as her right hand sets to work on the buttons of his dress shirt._

_He doesn’t move. His eyes are focused on the garishly smiling Love-A-Lot Bear that adorns her chest._

_Roman is beautiful. She knows this about him. Hells, everybody knows this about him. However, as the buttons release, revealing his skin, Dunc finds herself once more surprised by his beauty. And she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her mind focused on the task at hand._

_Roman’s torso is covered in goosebumps, his skin contracting, as she slips the drenched fabric off of him._

_She pauses a moment to unclasp the buttons on his cuffs, her fingers brushing against the thrumming pulse of his wrist, before pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the floor to lie with his jacket and tie._

_Roman continues to watch her silently, blinking in the weak light of her bedroom._

_Dunc has never been this intimate with another person in her life -- and certainly not with a boy whom she has feelings for -- a boy who has been the star of every one of her cheesy daydreams up until recently -- up until that stupid day at the fair. But surprisingly she finds herself unafraid. Maybe it’s because, even though this is Roman, and he is beautiful, and she is undressing him, there is nothing sexual about this moment._

_He is hurt and scared and seeking comfort._

_And she can give it to him._

_And so she does._

_With surprisingly steady hands, she releases the buckle of Roman’s belt and then reaches down to undo the button and zipper of his dress pants. They slide down his hips and pool around his feet._

_He glances up at her, a question in his eyes._

_“I’m going to get a towel for your hair,” she says softly, reaching out to briefly touch his cold shoulder._

_It’s strange that these are the first words they have spoken since he’s shown up at her window in the dark hours of the morning, dripping wet and oozing like an open wound._

_He nods._

_When she returns, he has removed his shoes and socks and has kicked his pants from his legs. He is standing there in only a pair of dark boxer briefs, shivering -- his normally tan skin a frozen white, a Greek statue come to life -- cold and remote, lines of pain etched into his beautiful face._

_Dunc approaches, placing a warm hand on his neck to steady him, as she works the towel over his head, his face, his shoulders -- catching the drops of rain and the tears alike._

_When he is passably dry, she takes him by the hand and tugs gently._

_His eyes blink up to meet hers; and she sees the fear and despair, as clear as if he has spoken._

_“What…?” he croaks._

_“Let’s get you warm,” she says softly. “Then we can talk.”_

_It will be fine, she assures herself. Hells, she’s Dunc Duncan -- straight A student and resident perfect child. Her parents would never suspect that she’d take a boy into her bed -- and even if they did, they’d figure it’d be for a good reason. She will just set the alarm on her phone and smuggle him out of the house early tomorrow morning._

_Obediently Roman follows her to the bed. Watches her as she throws back the covers and urges him in._

_Once he is settled, she gets in on her side and turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room back into darkness._

_He is silent and still on his side of the bed, trying not to take up space, so she moves to him, pulling his cold body into hers, wrapping her strong arms around him, fitting his head into the crook of her neck, and twisting her legs around his-- trying to transfer every bit of body heat she has to his shivering flesh._

_He is stiff and brittle at first. However, as her hand moves up and down his back, following the solid, sure path of his spine, he starts to relax -- his muscles slowly uncoiling, his skin warming like putty under her touch._

_And as his body loosens, so do his emotions._

_At first, she just feels the hot slipperiness of tears against her neck. But when she tightens her arms around him, Roman releases a sob so full of anguish, Dunc finds herself blinking back her own tears._

_He’s in so much pain, and she doesn’t know how to help him._

_All she can do is hold on and let him break. Try to hold the pieces of him together in her arms._

_The wind is loud and that rain is loud and Roman’s pain is loud. And Dunc worries for a minute whether her parents will hear._

_However, his sobs finally quiet and his breath regulates, and he reaches up a trembling hand to wipe his eyes and nose._

_She wonders if she should let him go now. The worst of it seems to be over. And he is warm, his shivers reduced to the odd spasm of grief._

_However, when she tentatively loosens her arms around him, he burrows closer into her._

_“I’m sorry,” he mumbles._

_That throws her. “Why?”_

_“I didn’t mean to come here. I didn’t mean to burden you with all of this shit,” he says; and the disgust in his voice makes his words sharp and biting. “I just couldn’t stay in that fucking house with those fucking people one second longer. Listen to them completely rewrite history -- as if we all just suddenly agreed we were going to lie about him. Lie about what an asshole he was.”_

_He breathes out a whoosh, and Dunc shivers in response, the hair on her neck and shoulders rising._

_“I was just out walking,” he continues, his voice raspy from crying. “Just walking. For hours. Not really going anywhere. And then it started to rain; and I just kept walking. I figured no one would really miss me. They want to believe all that bullshit about Wy Webber being a stand-up guy, a great father, a doting husband; and I just get in the way of that. My mother... ” Roman breaks off, breathing in a ragged breath. “I didn’t plan on it or anything. I swear I didn’t. I suddenly just ended up here.” He lets out what is meant to be a laugh, but it is too wet and full of sorrow. “I don’t even remember climbing the damn tree. All of a sudden, I was just knocking on your window like a fucking serial killer.”_

_She smiles at that. “You scared the hells out me.”_

_“Sorry,” he says again, miserably._

_“No. I’m glad you came. I was worried about you.”_

_He grunts out a disgusted sound. “Well, I’d assure you that I’m fine, but, as you can see for yourself, that would be a total lie.” He mutters something that sounds like “shit,” but she can’t tell because his voice breaks._

_“I’m sorry,” she says simply._

_“Not your fault. You didn’t kill him."_

_“No...I’m sorry that you are hurting.”_

_He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just buries his head in her hair again; a_ _nd they are quiet for a long moment._

_“My mother is so pissed at me,” he admits. “Raina too. They expect me to close ranks -- protect the family -- our reputation. Step-up and take the old man’s place. Schmooze and network and sing Wy Webber’s praises -- assure all those business associates and important people that nothing’s changed. That their investments are still safe. But I can’t. I can’t fucking pretend he was something he wasn’t, Dunc. I can’t fucking pretend that I am something that I’m not.”_

_“No. Of course, not,” Dunc soothes, and means it._

_It had surprised her, at first. The reality of Roman’s life. Like everyone else, Dunc had just assumed that Roman Webber was one of the chosen few. The golden boy. The fortunate son. But she had soon found out that nothing could be further from the truth. No, Roman had been given every privilege -- every damn privilege in the world -- but he had been given no choice. It still makes her mad, despite what a jerk he’s been to her. Despite the fact that he’s caved into the pressure -- rejected her -- bent to the will of his sister and her friends. He should still have a choice. He fucking should have._

_“You’re just a kid, Roman,” Dunc insists, running a hand through his tangled, damp hair. “Just a kid who has lost his father. You don’t need to be anything more than that. You don’t. Don’t let anyone tell you that you do.”_

_Roman makes a strangled sound, the tears thick in his throat. “I just feel like there’s nothing left of me, Dunc. Nothing. Just everyone’s expectations.”_

_She tightens her arms around him. “You’re here.” She reaches up to put her hand over his heart, pressing down to feel his heartbeat, the steady rhythm of him. “You’re right here, Roman Webber. Here, with me. I see you.”_

_“You’re the only one, you know? The only one, besides the stupid school counselor who is worried about me … who… fuck … who doesn’t expect things from me.”_

_She nods. What else can she do? She’s sixteen years old and not equipped to handle this much pain and sorrow. But then again, neither is he. Neither is he._

_“You’re the only one who sees me -- sees past everything,” Roman continues hoarsely. “Sees the scared, little kid buried under all the bullshit -- under all the fucking expectations. Sees past everyone’s ideas of who I am and what I want.”_

_“What do you want?” The question is out of her mouth before she can pull it back._

_Crap. It’s dangerous to ask him that -- here, in her bed, wrapped up in each other's arms._

_Despite the storm raging outside, it’s far too quiet for a question like that._

_“You.” His answer is short, instantaneous._

_She blinks at him, her face flushing. “Roman… I …”_

_“Not like that,” he protests, feeling her blush through her skin. “At least not now.”_

_He falls silent again._

_“I told you that I don’t know why I came here; but that wasn’t exactly true. Dunc, I came here ...I came here because … shit, well, because it was the one place I could go where I feel like myself. Like Roman. Not Wy Webber’s son and heir. Not Raina’s brother. Not the stupid prom king or the MVP of the basketball team or any of that bullshit. Just Roman -- the fuck-up who tries and fails and makes a mess of things. But .. it’s OK, you know? To be that. To be that fuck-up. It’s like when I’m around you, I feel like who I am, who I really am, maybe isn’t so bad. And I just want … hells, Dunc, I don’t deserve it -- not at all -- but I just want you to give me another chance. I know I have no right to ask. But you asked what I want -- which no one ever does. No one ever fucking asks me that. And that’s what I want.”_

_She pulls him closer, overcome with a strange emotion that she doesn’t have the name for._

_Briefly she wonders if this is a dream. If she will wake up from all this tomorrow morning with a muzzy head and fleeting memories and the flushed embarrassment of knowing that she’s dreamt of Roman yet again._

_He is restless in her arms, waiting for her to answer; but she finds that she doesn’t have the words to respond._

_It is too much, and she is unprepared._

_She listens to the storm outside, stalling._

_“Sleep,” Dunc says finally, bringing her hand up to run it softly over Roman’s furrowed brow, tracing the worry lines that have been notched into his skin._

_“Dunc. Please…”_

_“Shh.. Roman. Sleep,” she soothes, dipping down her head to look him in the eye, trying to convey what she can’t say. “Your poor body needs rest right now.”_

_He opens his mouth to argue, but she leans her head forward and softly kisses his eyebrow, her lips lingering for a brief moment._

_“Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,” she murmurs softly. “It can wait until the morning. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”_

**~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

The atmosphere in the car had long ago passed awkward and was now bordering on uncomfortable.

Jaime sighed despondently, using his prosthesis to turn on the windshield wipers, smearing the laminated safety glass with the cold, spring rain that had just started to fall.

Brienne sat silently in the passenger seat of the rented car, staring out the window.

Jaime had spent the better part of the past week practicing one-handed driving, taking Tyrion out on long, meandering treks in order to perfect his technique -- determined to reclaim, at least, one part of his old existence.

However, Brienne hadn’t noticed his efforts -- or, if she had, she wasn’t saying anything.

Jaime couldn’t blame her.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, where she sat, hunched over against the window, as if she couldn’t get far enough away from him.

_Fucking Cersei._

The article had hit that morning, right before Brienne was scheduled to fly to King’s Landing. A full page, glossy write-up in _The Westerosi Whisperer_ : “Cersei Baratheon’s Silent Heartache.”

_Shit._

Jaime had to hand it to her, Cersei had pulled out all the stops this time, in her quest for vindication. Still he couldn’t quite believe that she had stooped so low. Or maybe he could believe it. Maybe the disbelief came when he remembered all of the years that he had spent defending her.

The interview was personal, poignant -- an incredibly sympathetic profile of a rising star and heartbroken heroine -- although the fact that the rising star and heartbroken heroine was Cersei bloody Baratheon was almost audacious in its irony. Really, Jaime would have laughed, if Cersei had simply focused her attack on him. But she was Cersei, which meant that she was ruthless as all hells. She had known how to best hurt Jaime -- to get back at him for breaking up with her. She had known that Jaime’s weak spot was not his pride or his vanity or his good name (not like he ever really had one). No, Cersei had known -- she had known -- that his weak spot was Brienne.

And so Cersei had crafted a pretty, little story of love and betrayal and heartbreak, telling of the fifteen years that she and Jaime had spent together -- the deep, abiding love and trust and connection. Lips trembling and eyes wet, Cersei had mournfully recounted the horror of Jaime’s accident and injury and the resulting depression that Jaime had suffered. Brazen in her lies, she had woven great, hyperbolic tales of sleepless nights spent at the bedside of the man that she loved, trying to pull him out of the despair and the fury. Standing by him -- a light in the darkness. But, she had related mournfully, in the end, that hadn’t been enough to stave off the machinations of Jaime’s conniving, opportunistic, former co-star, who had swooped in and stolen Jaime’s affections.

It was ludicrous, really. The idea of Brienne as a moustache-twirling villain, sweeping in to take advantage of a drugged out and depressed Jaime Lannister was laughable at best and delusional at worst. But ever the consummate storyteller, Cersei had painted a picture of a jealous, conniving, bitter woman who had long harbored a secret crush on Jaime and had waited until he had fallen down to her level before she pounced.

“She knew that she was never going to be good enough for him when he was whole and healthy,” Cersei had told the reporter. “But poor, darling Jaime was broken and wounded and depressed -- completely vulnerable to the slightest suggestion. Unfortunately, I was filming in Dorne; and I suppose Brienne saw her opportunity and moved in. She didn’t care about the fifteen years Jaime and I had together -- about all of the hard work that we had put into our relationship. She wanted him. She had always wanted him, ever since the _Westerosi_ days when he was a rising star and she was … well, not. And so she played on his weakness -- on his injury -- on his lack of confidence and depression; and the poor, silly boy fell for it.”

The article had contained pictures. So many pictures. Pictures of Jaime and Cersei, young and golden and in love, mirror images of each other. Pictures of Jaime and Brienne, Brienne with her shaved head and green, stricken face, as he helped her into the car after her accident. It was obvious that the pictures had been curated to show the very best side of Cersei and the most unphotogenic side of Brienne.

Honestly, the whole thing was a fucking nightmare.

As soon as he had seen the article, Jaime had immediately called Varys -- who promised to come up with a plan for damage control. And then Jaime had said a silent prayer for protection and had called Brienne, catching her before she boarded her flight.

Brienne had already seen the article. Fucking Stark had apparently shown it to her earlier on the set, and had advised her to cancel her plans. However, as outraged as Jaime had been about both the article and the presumptuousness of Fucking Stark, Brienne had been remarkably silent. Which, truth be told, freaked Jaime out even more.

He had apologized. He had promised to make it right. He had assured Brienne that he’d do whatever it took to clear her name.

But Brienne had barely said a word. Oh, she had agreed to talk to Varys about damage control. However, other than that, she didn’t want to talk about it and shot down all of Jaime’s attempts to broach the subject.

The only problem was, that it was there -- it was there between them when he had picked her up at the airport, and it was there between them in this goddamned car -- and, unless they did something, it would be there between them when they got to the _Westerosi_ set. And the visit to the set was going to be painful enough as it was.

“I’m so sorry about the article,” Jaime tried one more time, turning his head to briefly gaze at Brienne.

She sighed, a pained sound. “You already said that, Jaime. About a million times. Honestly, it’s not your fault.”

“I feel like it is. I’m the one who brought all this shit down on you -- who involved you in all of my drama.”

She shrugged. “I’m a big girl. I make my own decisions. Besides, none of it is true, so I don’t know why you are getting so worked up about it.”

“Because she said such awful things about you,” Jaime protested.

“She’s always said awful things about me. Always.”

“Still,” Jaime sputtered, feeling that old, familiar guilt heat his chest from the inside. “She had no right to do it. I’m the one who broke up with her. You had nothing to do with it. I’m the one who hurt her. And yet, somehow she makes me out to be the poor, drug-addled victim, and you the nefarious, evil woman playing on the vulnerability of a cripple.”

“That’s nothing new,” Brienne muttered. “You should know by now that it doesn’t matter the circumstance, the woman is always the one to blame.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“You think?” Brienne turned again to look out of the window.

“Varys will sort it all out,” Jaime assured her nervously.

_Varys better damn well sort this out. If he didn’t, Jaime was going to have to go see Cersei and fucking sort it out himself._

“He’s good at playing all of these publicity games.”

“Fine,” Brienne said, curling in on herself against the door of the car.

“I’m sorry it comes at such a bad time,” Jaime continued doggedly. He knew he was babbling. Brienne had said, she very well said, that she didn’t want to rehash this shit; but here he was pushing yet again. “I know you are shooting the finale and in the middle of negotiations and everything.”

“It’s fine, Jaime,” Brienne said tiredly.

“It’s not fine,” he replied, almost angry at her complicity.

“Look,” Brienne said irritated. “It’s not the first awful thing that’s been said about me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Besides, you and I both know that it’s bullshit. The idea of you leaving Cersei for me -- of me using my feminine wiles to trap you is ridiculous.”

Jaime swallowed roughly, side-eying her. “Brienne…”

“Look, can we just drop it? Just concentrate on the set tour? That’s what I came out here for.”

“All right,” Jaime acquiesced worriedly. “Fine. I’ll drop it. I’m just … really sorry.”

Brienne closed her eyes and let her head fall against the window with a thunk. “Yes, Jaime, I fucking know.”

**~~~~~~~**

The spring shower had turned into a gray drizzle by the time they pulled into the parking lot of the _Westerosi_ compound, sheets of hazy mist covering everything like clingfilm.

Luckily Brienne was used to Winterfell weather and always tended to dress warm. She pulled the hood of her dark blue parka over her head and turned to look at Jaime who was shivering in his light sweater, the wet causing his hair to curl over his forehead romantically.

_Jesus, Brienne -- not romantically. For Pete’s sake!_

She shook her head.

At least the article had put things into perspective -- showed her how ridiculous it was for her to spaz out about a stupid sex dream. Showed her why that sex dream had contained both Jaime and Cersei freaking Baratheon. Honestly, it made perfect sense. Jaime and Cersei were indelibly linked -- even now -- even broken-up. No, no, the article had simply brought home the fact that the whole Jaime/Cersei thing was a sordid mess -- a mess that Brienne should avoid at all costs.

Of course, when Jaime had asked her, Brienne had told him it was fine -- that she was fine. But that wasn’t entirely true. Some of the things that Cersei had said in that article had hurt. A lot. Brienne prided herself on her pragmatism, but somehow seeing what Jaime had thought about her in the days of _Westerosi_ , put down in black and white for the whole world to read had stung more than she could have imagined. To be painted as the pathetic, pining fool -- the big, tongue-tied dullard so far below Jaime’s league that she had to wait until he was broken and damaged to get her chance with him, had opened old wounds, wounds that Brienne had thought were healed -- peeling back the skin and revealing the festering below the surface. It had hurt -- had made her feel foolish -- gullible -- stupidly naïve.

Was she an idiot for trusting Jaime -- for letting herself be close to him in any capacity? Hells, was Cersei right? Did Brienne subconsciously have some sort of romantic feelings towards the man? Was that why she had dreamed of him? And if that were the case, was she that much of a masochist that she had developed a crush on a guy who had spent the better part of five years insulting her? Lord, what did that say about her, if that were true?

“Should we check out the school first?” Jaime’s voice broke through Brienne’s confused thoughts; and she glanced over to see him gesturing to the front steps of what used to be Westerosi High.

_Right. The tour. They were here to see the set one last time. That’s all she had to do right now -- not worry about the stupid article. No, she just needed to do what she came here to do -- to say goodbye to Westerosi._

“Yeah,” Brienne answered, pulling her parka tighter around her. And then, without waiting for Jaime, she made her way across the puddled parking lot.

When she got to the steps marked off by the yellow construction tape, Brienne stopped. “You’re sure the owner is OK with us going in? It’s safe and everything?”

“It should be,” Jaime replied, looking at the multitude of doors adorning the front of the building. “They said they’d leave one of the doors open for us. I wonder which one?”

“How were you able to manage this?” Brienne mused, stepping over the tape and making her way up the steps.

“Varys pulled a few strings for me.”

“Ah.”

“He’s really good at all this shit, Brienne. He’s been in the business for about a thousand years. Knows everyone. I’m telling you, if anyone can handle Cersei’s bullshit, it’s Varys.”

Brienne nodded distractedly, trying each of the doors in turn.

With a hard tug, the last door creaked open, and she peered into the inky black of the interior.

“Are there lights?”

“No idea,” Jaime replied, propping open the door and following Brienne into the musty darkness. “Let’s see, shall we?” He went over to a panel on the far wall, flicking up the switches.

Instantly the building was lit in a grayish-white, fluorescent brightness.

“Shit,” Brienne breathed, as the light played across the Great Hall, the wind from the open door making the dust and staleness of the trapped air rise like a ghostly miasma.

It still looked the same -- a little worse for wear, but still the same.

Jaime made a noise in the back of his throat. “Damn! There’s my locker.” He walked over to a bank of lockers, their blue paint peeling, exposing the oxidized metal underneath. Grinning, he spun the combination lock with the fingers of his left hand.

“How in hells do you remember which locker was yours?” Brienne asked in surprise, following him down the hall.

“What do you mean? It’s number 21 -- same as my number on the court.” Jaime pulled open the door with a creak, revealing empty shelves, the remnants of some tattered band sticker on the inside door. He turned to Brienne. “Your locker was over there. 104. Down by the library entrance.”

“I had about a million different lockers,” Brienne quipped. “I was on the show for six years, which is about 137 years in _Westerosi_ time. I felt like I had a new locker every episode.”

Jaime shrugged, still gesturing down the hall. “Well, that was the locker you had when we got together. When Roman kissed Dunc for the first time. You were sitting on the floor, just below …”

“Yeah, I remember,” Brienne cut him off, turning to make her way to her locker. She didn’t want to think about that kiss.

Jaime caught himself and frowned. “Sorry.” He reached out a hand to her but seemed to think the better of it and pulled it back, scratching his head instead. “Brienne, you know that …”

“Should we go see the gym?” she cut him off, unwilling to have that conversation right now.

“Sure,” Jaime replied dully.

He looked like he wanted to say something; but Brienne didn’t give him the chance, striding off towards the double doored entrance to the gym.

The gym was a total dump. The bleachers had been torn up and removed, leaving great gouges in the vinyl flooring. The baskets still stood, although the nets had long ago been eaten away and now hung in tatters like gray spiderwebs.

“Holy hell, this is just sad,” Jaime sighed, gazing at the ruined flooring. “You’d never believe that Westerosi High had a championship basketball team, looking at the state of this place.”

Brienne peered up at the wall above the baskets. “Oh, all the jerseys are gone.” She gestured up to where the jerseys of the star players used to hang. “I was hoping we could find yours, maybe liberate it before demolition.”

“Poor Roman,” Jaime said sadly. “I guess his legacy won’t live on, after all. He so wanted to be remembered as one of the good ones.”

Brienne bumped against Jaime’s shoulder fondly. “Ah, you’re forgetting that Roman’s entire basketball career has been recorded for all posterity and is currently playing in syndication. Hells, it will probably still be playing when your grandchildren come of age.”

Jaime laughed at that, bumping her back. “Well there is that, I guess.” He turned to face Brienne, reaching a hand up to scratch his neck. “Do you remember the episode when we won the championship?”

“Of course, I do,” she replied softly.

_Was it her imagination or was Jaime blushing?_

“You know, I thought it was so cheesy at the time -- the whole kiss in the middle of the court, while everyone celebrated, and the confetti fell around us.” Jaime’s face colored more. “But Tyrion and I watched that episode not too long ago, and it was actually pretty moving. I may or may not have teared up a little.”

Brienne nodded awkwardly, her own cheeks pink -- then turned to make her way towards the corner of the gym. “Here’s where I sat -- where the band sat.”

Jaime laughed. “Gods, you and that godsdamn trombone.”

“Hey, that’s not nice. I played a mean ‘Seven Nation Army,’ and you know it.”

“Yeah you did. Christ, you were such a geek, Dunc Duncan.”

“Whatever,” Brienne huffed primly. “Dunc was the epitome of a well-rounded student. That’s why she got into such a prestigious college. You’re just jealous on behalf of your character.”

Jaime gave her a smile, his eyes suddenly soft. “I am. Very jealous. Roman could never live up to her, no matter how hard he tried.”

“Yeah,” Brienne said, coloring even more under his heated gaze. She shrugged and turned to go. “Let’s go see the library.”

They spent the better part of the next hour touring the rest of the rooms of the high school, stopping by the cafeteria briefly (the smell being too rank to spend too much time there), before heading out to the Kingsroad set, to walk the old beat one last time.

The rain had stopped by the time Brienne pulled the door of Westerosi high shut; but the sky was still dark, the drizzle leaving a hazy sheen over everything.

They walked in companionable silence the short distance to the Kingsroad set -- Jaime still a bit jittery, Brienne stiff and awkward.

However, when they got to the set, they both stopped, frozen, staring down at the Kingsroad in awe.

It was almost like they had never left.

“Gods, this is surreal,” Jaime said, looking down at the empty street.

Brienne nodded, an uneasy sense of deja vu washing over her, as she gazed at the once bright facades of the shops and businesses, now sealed tightly, cold and ossified and crumbling.

It was unsettling to be here. Like she had stepped back into the past -- to the early days, before this business had hardened her, forced her to build the walls that now shielded her from the worst of the world's hurt.

Wandering down the street, she came to a stop in front of a red brick building, its black trim faded and peeling. It was the shopfront of what used to be The Kingsroad Tattoo and Piercing Parlor, where, in a moment of stupid impulsivity, Dunc had dragged Roman, all set on breaking out of her good girl image and getting a tattoo. Roman, although staunchly a member of the bad boy league, himself, had been dead set against it -- insisting that Dunc was trying to be something that she fucking wasn't. However, after a heated argument and an even hotter make-up session, Dunc had ended up getting a tiny sword tattooed on her right shoulder blade. A tattoo that had resulted in her being grounded for a month. A tattoo that, in episodes to come, Roman took to tracing with his fingers, whenever he was nervous or unsettled.

Restless in her memories, Brienne crossed the street to stand in front of what used to be The White Book Bookshop, where Dunc Duncan had worked part time during her junior and senior years. Jesus, how many scenes had Brienne shot on this particular set? Dunc and Edric poring over arcane historical literature; Dunc and Bethany doing homework at the front counter; Dunc and Roman making out in the dusty self-help section. Hells, Brienne still remembered exactly how the interior of that shop smelled -- Pine Sol, beeswax, and dust. Still remembered the feel of books pressed up against her back, as Jaime shoved her roughly into the shelves to kiss her, as the cameras rolled.

She shook her head to clear it of that particular memory and turned to say something to Jaime; but he wasn't there. He was across the street, standing in front of Hot Pie’s Deli and Coffee Shop, peering into the big glass window.

Lord, Hot Pie’s -- the prime hang-out of Westerosi High's student body.

Hot Pie’s was the scene of Dunc and Roman’s first real date. Brienne remembered it like it was yesterday. Despite the fact that Jaime had been a total asshat to her during most of that shoot, Brienne actually remembered that night with something akin to affection. She had felt almost grown-up that night, staying out way past her normal bedtime, making out with Jaime over and over at the outside café, waiting for the director to call cut. It had seemed so daring and scandalous at the time, in her little sixteen year old brain, being paid to make out with a cute boy in the middle of the night.

“Shall we go see your house?” Jaime was looking at her, his expression wary.

“Yeah, let’s go see it.”

The “neighborhood” set consisted of a street of row houses, their once brightly painted exteriors now faded and dull.

Jaime came to a stop in front of Number 12 Duskendale, the site of the Duncan residence.

Of course, like most of the interior shots, the inside of the house was shot on a sound stage in the big warehouse behind the school. But this façade served for all of the exterior shots.

“Does it still look the same?”

“You tell me,” Brienne replied, raising her eyebrows. "You spent more time outside of this house than I did."

Jaime laughed and pointed to a large maple tree. “Well I remember scaling that sucker in the dark and rain to get to your window. Many times.”

Brienne smiled. “Roman never did like using the goddamn door. So dramatic.”

“Hey, he was a romantic. A regular Romeo trying to get up to the balcony to woo the fair Juliet.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t fall and break his neck.” Brienne grinned. “And he’s even more lucky that Juliet didn’t toss his ass out of the window. Freaking stalker.”

Jaime laughed; and Brienne turned to look across the street.

“Oh, look it’s Edric’s house.”

Nodding at Jaime, she made her way over to the dilapidated house front of the Storm residence. This façade was run-down more than most, its front steps crumbling. “Poor Edric. His dad never could keep a job, what with all the drinking.”

Brienne looked over at Jaime but found that he hadn’t followed her. Instead, he was two houses down, looking at the façade of the Connington household.

Steeling herself, Brienne walked over to join him.

“Fucking Red Ronnet’s house,” Jaime said darkly.

Brienne swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Where it all began.”

Brienne nodded solemnly.

And all of sudden, she was back there again. To the day of “The Bet.”

Jaime was right. It all began here. People had been commenting on the chemistry between her and Jaime since the first minimal scenes that they had shot together. But that scene -- that scene in the Connington kitchen was the first time Brienne had truly felt it -- the energy buzzing between them, snapping and sparking, as Jaime held her shoulders, his grip tight and his eyes intense. She remembered the feeling of nailing that scene, the headiness of knowing that they had been good -- that she had been good. She had been barely fifteen, but, in that moment, she had realized how powerful this whole acting thing was -- how addicting it could be.

But then Jaime had gone and ruined it with his awfulness.

She turned to him. “You know, it’s strange. It was a million years ago; but it seems like only yesterday.”

“Not for me,” Jaime frowned, running a hand down his face. “For me it seems like a lifetime ago. Like a whole other life.” He brought his hand with the prosthesis up to point at the building façade. “Doesn’t seem like it’s all that monumental, but it is, huh? It’s where _Westerosi’s_ favorite couple began.”

“We didn’t know we were going to be a couple then.”

“No we didn’t,” Jaime agreed. “Although, I had a feeling…”

“Yeah, I remember you having a feeling,” Brienne replied flatly. “You weren’t all that happy about that feeling. And you made damn sure I knew that.”

Jaime winced as if he’d been slapped, “Gods, Brienne. I was an asshole, I know, but ...”

She shook her head, waving him off apologetically. “It’s fine, Jaime. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s fine.”

“Yeah. It’s fine," Jaime muttered, turning to walk a few paces down the road. "So much is fine today, isn’t it? We’re just lucky that everything is so damn fine.”

“What …” she said, trailing after him.

He groaned defeatedly. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just this whole thing ...” He stopped, gesturing to the set. “It’s just throwing me, I guess. So much has changed.” He looked down at his hand grimly, frowning at the prosthesis. “So much shit has happened. And I don’t like remembering… I just don’t like thinking about who I was back then. I mean I was still such a little, ungrateful shit.”

Brienne looked at him solemnly.

“You know, I didn’t want to come here,” Jaime said hoarsely. “I said I was worried about your reaction. Worried about you getting mad or upset or yelling at me or something. But really I was afraid. I didn’t want to come back here and remember -- have to remember all of the mistakes I’ve made -- all the shit I pulled. I …” He colored, looking away from her eyes. “I wish I could go back and change some things. Change most things.”

Brienne smiled a sad smile. “Well, you know, if wishes were horses and all that crap.”

He sighed. “I know. It doesn’t mean much, does it?”

“No,” she protested. “It does, Jaime. It does.”

Impulsively she grabbed his good hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Come on. Let’s go say goodbye to the Webber house and then let’s get the hells out of here. Put all these ghosts to bed for good and get on with it.”

However, Jaime didn’t reply, his gaze solely focused on their joined hands.

Brienne colored.

_Shit, had she overstepped?_

He was looking at her as if he couldn’t believe she was touching him.

_Damn it. Cersei’s words from the article sprang to her mind: “Tarth always had a thing for him, don’t you know -- even though he couldn’t stand her. Pathetic, really.”_

Quickly dropping Jaime’s hand, Brienne switched her grip to the crook of his arm -- safer territory. “Come on,” she repeated, trying to salvage the moment. “It’s getting cold out here, and I’m starving.”

Jaime looked at her -- a searching look, puzzled and hopeful.

Finally, after a long moment, he shrugged, his mouth quirking up in a soft smile. “All right. Let's go, then. Lead the way.”

**~~~~~~**

Luckily, by the time they made it to Jaime’s flat, some of the day’s awkwardness had dissipated, replaced by a heavy, blanketing exhaustion. It was understandable for Brienne. She had been working incredibly long hours shooting the season finale of _Knights_ \-- not to mention the fact that she was facing a redeye flight back to Winterfell later on that evening and then an early call the next morning.

For Jaime, however, the exhaustion was slightly less understandable. Of course, he had been wound up, tense all day -- for the last few weeks, really. And he currently wasn’t really sleeping much -- too caught up in the messy confusion of his goddamn emotions.

Mostly he tried to ignore it -- this painful longing that he suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly) had developed for his former co-star. Sometimes it made him angry -- furious that he had gone and messed everything up before anything could even begin. And sometimes, every now and again, he dared to hope. Dared to think that maybe he hadn’t totally screwed things up. Maybe there was a chance. Maybe Brienne was starting to feel something for him too.

But then she had gone and suggested the visit to the set; and Jaime had known that it wouldn’t end well.

Jaime had known, he had fucking known, that visiting the set was going to bring shit up -- shit that was better left in the past. However, what could he do? Brienne wanted this. Wanted to say goodbye. And if she wanted it, Jaime didn’t have the right to deny her any of it, did he now? He had to be there -- go with her -- face those ghosts -- even if it were uncomfortable as all hells, even if it set them back again. Christ, he owed her that. He owed her that and then some.

And then the article had hit; and Jaime had just wanted to cry.

The visit was going to be difficult enough without Cersei’s bullshit -- without her accusations -- without Brienne having to read all of those horrible things that Cersei had said, all of those horrible things that Cersei claimed that he had said.

Jaime had panicked. Had spent the afternoon pacing back and forth muttering obscenities -- sure, damn sure that everything was ruined. 

And yet, surprisingly, the visit had gone better than he could have ever hoped.

Oh, there had been a few tense moments, when the memories had come flooding back with a vengeance, and the hurt had shadowed Brienne’s face like a veil. Moments when Jaime, despite his resolve, just couldn’t contain the self-loathing -- couldn't drown out that incessant voice in his head telling him that he was shit and would always be shit, and that Brienne was better off keeping well away from him.

At one point, he had thought he had lost it, there, in front of Connington’s house. He hadn’t meant to say those things -- delve into those feelings -- afraid that he would scare her off and lose that tiny, small hope that he kept close to his chest.

But then Brienne had taken his hand -- she had taken his goddamned hand -- and suddenly Jaime had felt OK again. Felt like he hadn’t blown things entirely -- despite his past behavior. Despite his unhinged ex-girlfriend. Despite the fact that he was breaking down there in the rain, in front of fucking Red Ronnet's house.

And he hadn't been lying. If he could go back in time, Jaime would change everything. Every goddamned thing. Make sure that no one, including him -- especially him-- ever hurt Brienne Tarth. Wonderful, kind, noble, way-too -forgiving-for-her-own-good Brienne Tarth. Brienne Tarth who was currently sitting here in his flat, on his couch, drinking a glass of wine and staring at him with those otherworldly eyes, until Jaime wanted to crawl out of his skin just to stop it from itching with the uncomfortable knowledge that he was in love with her.

He flexed his fingers against his leg, remembering Brienne’s warm grasp, her flushed cheeks.

“Do you feel any different?” Jaime finally hazarded, when the silence got too much. He reached over to the side table to grab his wine glass and take a nervous gulp.

“What do you mean?” Brienne turned to him, blinking a bit to clear her head of the foggy tiredness that seemed to have settled into her joints.

“Now that you've said goodbye to _Westerosi_? Said goodbye to Dunc?”

She contemplated his words for a long moment. “Maybe.” She took a sip of wine.

Jaime watched her throat, as she swallowed.

“You know I spent so much of the last ten years trying to forget all that. Honestly, I think it was good to face it. To deal with it. I mean, I went through a lot of shit during my time there; but I also learned a lot. Learned to act there. Spent almost all of my teens there. Yeah … I’d say it was good. Good to say goodbye. Good to go there … with you.” She nodded at him, her cheeks pinking in the soft light of the lamp.

“I’m glad,” he said, finding that, surprisingly, he was.

“Thanks again for arranging it, Jaime. For coming with me. I know you didn’t want to go.”

“No, no. I …” he broke off. She was looking at him archly; and he found that he couldn’t lie to her. “Well, yeah, I didn’t want to go. I thought it would be difficult, which it was.” He snorted out a self-deprecating laugh. “But I really should have known. I am totally defenseless in the face of your superpower.”

Brienne let out an amused laugh. “Oh, yes -- my superpower. How could you ever resist?”

“It is a superpower,” Jaime argued leaning forward on the couch. “Seriously, just look around you. Who’d have thought ten years ago that we’d be sitting here together sharing a bottle of wine and some obscenely overpriced Pentoshi takeout, after visiting Westerosi High together?”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Brienne smiled at him fondly. “Although, in the end, that wasn’t my doing. You’re the one who called me first. Started this whole thing.”

Jaime nodded. “I’m glad I did.”

Suddenly, he couldn’t quite look her in the eye, and his gaze fell to her long fingers playing with the stem of her wine glass.

Brienne started at him puzzled for a moment. She took another gulp of her wine, feeling the heat of it down in her belly, mixing with the hazy exhaustion, and then turned her body slightly to face him. “Why did you?”

“What?”

Jaime felt the panic in his throat and coughed.

“Why did you call me? I’ve never quite been able to figure it out.”

_Oh shit. How was he supposed to explain this?_

He licked his lips, his heart rate speeding up as he tried to weigh his words. “I … I was scared. I was alone. And I just thought …”

“But you had Cersei, Tyrion,” Brienne interrupted. “We hadn’t spoken in ten years. Why me?”

Stalling, Jaime leaned forward and grabbed the bottle of wine, refilling his glass and taking a gulp. He gave her a shaky smile and tried to play it off. “Elder and I have spent way too much time trying to figure that one out.”

“And what have you come up with?”

Jaime shrugged. “I don’t know. You always made me feel better. Always seemed so … safe.”

Brienne let out a breath of disbelief at that. “Right. What are you talking about, Jaime? You hated being around me back then. Absolutely hated it.”

“I didn’t,” Jaime protested weakly. “At first maybe … but, later, I didn’t. Brienne, I didn’t. I just didn’t know how to change things between us -- change your perception of me.”

She shook her head vehemently, her face flushing. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Jaime -- except maybe the wine. You’re talking crazy.”

“I called you, Brienne. I called you. Surely that means something.”

“But it’s not like you called me and apologized, and we became instant friends,” she protested. “It’s not like you called me and asked if we could start over. You called me and then you ignored me, and then when I came out to see you, you told me to get out.”

Jaime frowned. “I know,” he groaned miserably. “But I was a jackass back then, dealing with all the depression and the anger and everything. But, Brienne, you have to know that I’ve always been … I don’t know, a little in awe of you.”

“Oh piss off,” she griped, suddenly irritated.

“I’m serious. Even in those early days when I was a raging asshole, you scared the hell out of me. You were just so good. So talented. So kind and Brienne-like. I think that’s why I connected so much with you when we were acting. because I … I related to Roman. I liked thinking someone like you would stick up for me … care for me … fight for me. But then I felt angry at myself for feeling that way about someone who couldn’t stand being around me. And I acted like a tool and kept acting like a tool -- when all I really wanted was to … I don’t know, get you to care about me a little? -- admit that I wasn’t so bad? Because I see it now, Brienne, I do. But I didn’t see it back then.”

Brienne was looking at him strangely, as if he were speaking in another language.

“I mean I wasn’t enough of a masochist to really put myself out there. I didn’t think I had the right to. Wasn’t even sure if I really wanted to. But, sitting in that hospital room, I thought… well, I thought that maybe you’d make an exception, since I was so broken. You were always kind to a fault, even to people who didn’t deserve it.” He shrugged. “So I took a chance.”

“Jesus.” Brienne’s face was white, the exhaustion replaced by confusion.

“Yeah, I know. It's kinda pathetic, but it’s true. And then, after I called and you talked me down, I felt stupid and guilty for having reached out, having exposed myself, to someone who didn’t like me at all in the first place. So I acted like the asshole again because I’m good at that -- and you expected that -- and it was just easier than having to sort through all of these complicated feelings about you and me and our time on _Westerosi_. But then you came out to see me; and then I couldn’t give you up, even though I should have, for your sake.”

Brienne sat up quickly, placing her wine glass on the coffee table. “What do you mean for my sake?”

“Well, shit, Brienne. I just complicated your life didn’t I? Even now, you can’t escape my drama.”

“Jaime, that’s not your fault,” she tried to protest.

“Isn’t it though?” he argued. “I was with her for years, Brienne. Stood by her for years, even when she did some pretty awful shit. Even when she did some pretty awful shit to you.”

Brienne frowned, turning to stare out the window where the rain was still softly falling.

“Look, I’m not proud of myself, Brienne.”

“What?”

“I’m not proud of who I was. I mean my motivations were mostly good. I just wanted to protect the people I loved. But I … well, I think I loved the wrong people, in the end. And I think that screwed me up. I think that screwed everything up.”

Brienne blinked at him wide-eyed. “Jaime…”

“It’s OK. I’m not asking for your pity. I made my choices. I have to live with the consequences. Honestly, I’m just lucky that you picked up the phone that night. That you didn’t hang up on me. Didn’t give up when I gave you the cold shoulder or yelled at you for calling me out about my past behavior. And even today, I lucked out. Jesus, with the set and the memories and the fucking article -- I’m honestly surprised that you’re even here right now -- that you’re still here at all.”

Brienne grunted, scooting towards Jaime on the couch and grabbing his hand. She looked at him seriously. “Listen up, Lannister. I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”

Jaime gazed at her in disbelief.

Suddenly she grinned and squeezed his hand. “Well, that’s really not entirely true. I guess I am going somewhere since I’m flying back to Winterfell -- but you get my meaning.”

However, Jamie could only concentrate on the warm press of her hand on his, the rush of blood to his face and neck. “Brienne…” he tried to say. But she was too close. Way too close. Looking at him with those eyes, her expression so warm and accepting and forgiving. She was here -- with him, after everything -- after every fucking thing. And then suddenly his hand was in her hair, and his lips were on hers.

Gods, the kiss was like nothing he had ever experienced before, even though he had kissed Brienne a million times for work.

Her mouth was familiar -- her taste just the same, and yet entirely different than he remembered. She smelled like herself -- smelled of soap and sunscreen and perfume and wine. And Jaime’s head was spinning at a terrifying rate.

For all of her guardedness, Brienne was soft under his touch -- pliable. She had given out a quiet gasp of surprise, when Jaime had first launched himself at her, but now she seemed to have surrendered. Or maybe she was just overwhelmed, like he was, by the way that the earth seemed to be spinning out of control.

Barely aware of what he was doing, Jaime tilted his head, his hand tightening on her jaw, his tongue darting out to slip between her lips, feeling the slippery warmth of her.

He brought his prosthesis to rest on her hip, pulling her closer. And then closer still, his tongue reaching out to meet hers.

And then she was reeling back, her hands coming to Jaime’s chest to stop his forward motion.

“Jaime,” she rasped, ripping her mouth away from his and scuttling back against the armrest. “What… what are you doing?”

He blinked.

_Shit. What had just happened? What was he doing?_

“Gods, I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly, his face red with apology. “I’m an idiot. I should have asked. I … I just wasn’t thinking.”

Brienne shook her head, her expression now closed and guarded. “Obviously.”

That set him off. He looked up at her, suddenly angry.

“Stop that.” The vehemence in his voice surprised him and startled her. But he was so tired of this. Tired of pretending. _It had been a day. A fucking day. And he just couldn't keep all of these emotions inside of him anymore. Besides, she had kissed him back. For a few incredible moments, she had kissed him back._

“Excuse me?”

“Stop trying to make excuses for me. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you; that was wrong. But I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’m not an idiot for acting on my feelings, Brienne. It wasn’t a mistake.”

“Jaime. You don’t…”

“Yeah, Brienne. I do. I know exactly what I’m doing. Exactly what I’m saying.” He nodded at her, his expression sober.

_Jesus, he really shouldn’t be saying this. Not today. Not after the article and the set and everything that had happened. But it was too late now. And, honestly, he just didn’t have it in him anymore to try and play games._

“Look, it’s you, all right?" he said, his voice resigned. "It's you. I think it’s been that way for a long time. I’ve just been too stupid to realize it.”

Brienne gazed at him in shock, her expression alarmed. “What are you talking about? It’s been that way for a long time? It hasn’t been any way… and certainly not for a long time.”

“Brienne, it has for me,” Jaime insisted.

“You’re not making any sense, Jaime.”

Brienne rose in agitation, picking up her empty glass and walking to the table, suddenly completely preoccupied with tidying the take-away containers.

“You’re wrong,” Jaime argued, following her. He reached out a hand to still her movements. “For the first time in my life, I’m making total sense.”

She shook off his hand angrily. “Damn it, Jaime! You know you’re not damaged, right?”

Jaime blinked at her confused. “What?”

“You’re still … you, you know? Nothing’s changed.”

“Of course, I’m still me...”

“No, what Cersei said in the article,” Brienne tried to clarify, her voice strident. “I mean, if you think you need to settle, you don’t.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Are you fucking insane, woman? How could you think …? Tell me you don’t believe that bullshit. Tell me you don’t think you’re not up to my level or whatever toxic crap Cersei said in her pathetic attempt to bring me down.”

“No, of course not,” Brienne protested, frustrated. “I don’t view myself beneath you at all. But I know that you do -- or did.”

“Brienne, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I, Jaime? For years you made it absolutely clear how very out of my league you are. Now you’ve had an accident and an injury and you’ve broken up with your super-model girlfriend -- and, you have to admit, you do go on and on about how your life has changed and your opportunities are now limited -- and then suddenly you’re kissing me. What am I supposed to think, here?”

“Well, hells, I don’t know,” Jaime said testily. “Maybe that I’m not that stupid, nineteen-year-old kid anymore. Maybe that I’ve matured and learned a few hard lessons along the way. Learned what’s truly important and what’s not. I can’t believe you would think…”

“You can’t believe I would think ...? We don’t talk for ten years and then, all of a sudden, you’re launching yourself at me and telling me that it’s always been me? Me? The girl you tormented? The girl you hated?”

“It’s not all of a bloody sudden!” Jaime griped. “We've been friends for almost a year now. And I never hated you.”

Brienne moved to the opposite side of the table, picking up a cardboard container of spicy pork, and dumping its contents out into the carton that held the rice. “Jaime, this is ridiculous.”

“Why? Why is it fucking ridiculous?” He was getting mad now.

She shook her head at him. “Because it’s us.”

“Yeah. It’s us,” he repeated. “What’s your point?”

She put down the container and looked at him. “Jaime we can’t …” She colored. “ … date or whatever. We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Stop asking that. You know why.”

“No I don’t,” he insisted, coming around the table to stand in front of her. “I like you, Brienne. I like you a hell of a lot. You may think that it’s all of a sudden, but it’s not. At least not for me.”

“Look, Jaime we’re friends. Good friends. I really don’t think …”

“You said you’ve forgiven me.” His voice was hard, demanding.

“I have,” she replied cautiously.

“You said you like me now?”

“I do.”

“Do you trust me -- trust that I have your back?”

“Of course, Jaime, but …”

“But nothing. Listen to yourself, Brienne. Why is this so difficult to believe? We talk everyday. I share everything with you. You’re the only person I want to talk to -- the only person I trust with my thoughts, my fears. You make me want to be better. You call me out on my bullshit and challenge me to step up and never give a fucking inch in your expectations of me. But you also accept me when I fall short of those expectations -- which I always bloody do. Hells, woman, you’ve seen me at my absolute worst, and you still think there’s something there. Something worth knowing. You’re the only person in my whole goddamn life, besides my brother and my therapist, who gets me -- the real me. So tell me why this can’t work? Tell me why?”,

“Jaime… it just ... It can’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want it to.” Her words came out in a jumble, bleeding together in a rush. She looked at him, her eyes shiny with tears, her face pale.

He stilled, just staring at her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said miserably, trying to mitigate the damage of her words. “I just can’t … I just don’t want it, Jaime. I don’t want to … I mean, I think you’re wonderful. I do. I am so proud of you and everything you’ve done. But there’s just too much history between us for me to … go down that road with you. I couldn’t… I would always wonder if ...”

“All right,” Jaime cut her off, nodding stiffly. “You don’t have to explain. It’s totally your call. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable." He tried to smile. "I mean I had to ask, didn’t I? Had to take the chance?”

“I’m so sorry, Jaime,” Brienne pleaded, her expression stricken. “I am. Truly. Maybe if things had been ...”

“Please don’t,” he said flatly, holding up his prosthesis.

She fell quiet, looking at the table of leftovers --the only sound in the room, the soft beat of the rain against the window, the quiet ticking of the clock above the mantle.

After a few long moments of silence, Brienne found her voice again. “It’s late...I should go. My flight…”

“Yeah.. uh, of course,” Jaime said, running a hand through his hair roughly. “Let me just, uh ... I’ll drive you.”

“No, no,” she protested. “‘It’s fine. I’ll just call a car. You’re tired. It’s fine.”

“All right,” he agreed without protest, turning to make his way back to the couch. “If you think you can manage.”

Wincing, Brienne started gathering her things, fumbling around for her parka and bag.

When she had located everything, she approached Jaime cautiously.

“Uh .. thank you for setting up the tour and for dinner and for … everything, Jaime. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Of course.”

She gave him a brave smile. “Listen, I’ll call you. I’ll call you when I land. I promise, OK?”

She took a step towards him, stopping short when he turned his face up to hers. “Look, Jaime, this doesn’t have to change anything. It doesn’t.”

“You’re kidding, right?” He looked over towards the window, avoiding her gaze. 

“No, it doesn’t have to, Jaime. I swear to you, it doesn’t.” She reached one hand out to grasp his shoulder, trying to squeeze her assurances into him, as if she could make him believe with the pressure of her fingers. “We can navigate this. We’ve gotten through worse. Much worse...I’ll call you when I land. I will. I promise. Thanks again for … um … just thanks.”

She turned and made her way to the door, giving him one last, desperate smile over her shoulder.

And then she was gone, leaving Jaime with a tableful of leftovers and the resounding silence of her loss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, hells -- I know. Believe me, I know.
> 
> But I promise you, all will be well eventually. Keep the faith, my friends. 
> 
> And speaking of faith, “The Silence,” by Manchester Orchestra, is one of those songs that is completely transformative. Every time I listen to it, it hits in a different way. Check it out. It’s definitely worth a listen. 
> 
> As always, thank you so, so much for all of the incredible support that you’ve given this story. I can’t tell you how much your encouragement has meant to me. You are wonderful; and I appreciate you immensely.


	21. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advice from three wise men. Also -- lyrics, lyrics, lyrics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some canon-style violence. Mind how you go.

**“Brave”**

**Leona Lewis**

**“Keep my guard up constantly**   
**Stop this pain from piercing me**   
**Now I don’t know how, how to put it down,**   
**I wish I was that brave**

**You go to fight for love like a soldier**   
**I want to run away.**   
**You’re never scared to walk through the fire**   
**I wish I had your faith.**   
**I turn away, knowing my heart could break**   
**I’m too afraid to fall and surrender**   
**I’m not brave**

**~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

“Here!” Jaime threw his tattered, yellow notebook on Dr. Elder’s desk, striding over to the window to peer out over the hazy, brownish-gray skies of King’s Landing.

“Why, hello to you, Jaime,” Elder said calmly, looking up at Jaime from his desk, his expression faintly amused. “It’s nice to see you too. How was your week?”

“Oh, it’s all in there,” Jaime gestured to the notebook that lay untouched on Elder’s desk. “Every miserable, humiliating, horrifying detail. You can read it for yourself.”

Elder simply raised his eyebrows, not taking the bait. He deftly pushed the notebook to the side of his desk with his pencil. “We'll look at your homework later, Jaime. For now, why don’t you tell me how you are doing? That seems easier than having to piece it out.”

“Well, all right then!” Jaime cried, spinning to face the old man. He laid a finger on his chin in mock contemplation. “Hmm… how am I doing? How am I doing? Well, I’m doing fucking fantastic. Can’t you tell?” Jaime expelled an angry breath. “Let’s see if I can bring you up to speed. Oh, yes -- I took your bloody advice and told Brienne how I felt. And she fucking ran. Out the door. To the airport. Couldn’t get away from me fast enough. It was awesome.”

Jaime’s voice was sharp with sarcasm, his chin lifted in a challenge. “Really, I don’t know why you aren’t a full-time couples counselor, Elder. I mean, you give such incredible advice. Seriously, man, I haven’t felt this bad since they cut off my fucking hand.” With that, Jaime turned his back on Dr. Elder, looking out of the window sullenly.

“Ah,” Elder said, not at all offended. And then when Jaime didn’t answer, “Jaime? Why don’t you start from the beginning. Tell me what transpired with Brienne.”

Jaime closed his eyes against the pale, blinding light, letting out a tired exhalation. “It’s over.”

“You will have to be more specific than that. What is over?”

“This stupid redemption arc or whatever the hells it is that I’m on,” Jaime grumbled darkly. He met Elder’s gaze with his own. “You know the one-- the selfish asshole sees the error of his ways, reforms, and wins the heart of the girl who’s way too good for him.”

Grunting in disgust, Jaime walked over to the couch, throwing himself down upon the cushions roughly. “Take it from someone who knows, Elder, this whole redemption thing is just some bullshit fantasy, better left to the movies. In real life, when you peel back all that redemption and change and shit, all you get is the same selfish asshole -- the same selfish asshole who’s now a sucker for thinking that things could be any different.”

“Ah -- and I take it that the selfish asshole in this scenario is you?”

“Yes, of course, Elder. Who else would it be? You?”

Elder ignored him. “All right, let’s examine that, then. Why do you think you’re still ‘the selfish asshole’?”

“She still thinks I’m one.”

“Brienne?”

“Yes.”

“She told you this?”

“She didn’t have to. Her face said it all, when I admitted my feelings. Gods!” Jaime jumped back up to pace to the window again. “I knew it! I knew I didn’t have a chance in hells! And yet, I let you convince me that being honest was the way to go.” He affected a dull, supercilious monotone trying to match Elder’s voice. “‘Why not give her the chance to make her own decisions, Jaime? Doesn’t Brienne deserve to have all the information in front of her so that she can make an informed choice? Isn’t that what you would want, if you were in her position?”

Elder gave him an amused smile. “That’s rather good.”

“Well, I am an actor, you know,” Jaime grumbled.

“All right, then -- just so that I have this straight, you told Brienne that you had feelings for her; and she said that she didn’t feel the same way?”

Jaime closed his eyes and let his forehead fall against the glass of the window with a thwack. “Christ, I told her how I felt. Put it all out there -- ripped out my heart and served it up to her on a golden platter. And she sent it back to the kitchen and asked for the check.”

“That’s quite a vivid metaphor, Jamie.

“It was quite a vivid rejection.”

“Did she explain why she felt the way she did?”

Not taking his head from the glass, Jaime turned to look at Elder. “Because of our history. Because of who I am. I mean, we had just spent the whole day revisiting the _Westerosi_ set, reliving all of the memories. And I guess Brienne realized that she just doesn’t want to be with an asshole who hurt her.” He sighed. “I can’t blame her, really. I mean, why should she trust me? One stupid year of being friends doesn’t make up for all those years of bullshit I put her through. Hells, I wouldn’t trust me. Not in the fucking least.”

“Interesting.” Elder wrote something down in his notebook. He looked up at Jaime again. “You wouldn’t trust yourself, in her place? Why is that?”

“What?” Jaime looked at him confused.

“You just said that you are untrustworthy. So I’m asking why?”

Jaime shook his head frustrated. “I don’t know. What are you trying to get at?”

“Well, untrustworthy how? Do you believe that you will hurt Brienne, if she takes a chance on you? Treat her poorly?

“No!” Jaime cried, pushing off of the window and walking back to the couch. “I wouldn’t hurt her. Jesus, I’d sooner go under the knife again.”

“OK. Are you not being honest with her?”

“Fuck. I’m being much too honest,” Jaime muttered sourly.

“Are you trying to sabotage her happiness?”

“What? Are you seriously asking me that?” He grimaced in irritation. “This is stupid, Elder.”

“Then you _don’t_ really love her? You’re just using her, maybe? As a rebound, perhaps?”

“You’re insane, old man. Brienne is no rebound. Christ, I’ve been with one woman for the last fifteen years of my life. I don’t fucking rebound.”

“All right, then, Jaime. I may be missing something, but I fail to see how the untrustworthiness fits in -- how the asshole descriptor applies here.”

“Gods,” Jaime muttered, leaning forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees, a pained look on his face. “You fail to see how the asshole descriptor applies? Really? Hells, I spent five years being an asshole. To her, Elder. To Brienne.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Elder replied placidly. “But you are no longer. That is not you anymore. So tell me then, how is this redemption arc, as you so poetically put it, over?”

“She doesn’t want me.”

Elder nodded, comprehension dawning. “Oh, I see. So then you are only a good person if she wants you?”

“Yes! No. I don’t fucking know.” Jaime dropped his head into his hands. “I feel like I just can’t win. I try and I try, and all she sees is that nineteen year old punk from before.”

“Tell me, when she rejected you…”

Jaime grimaced at the phrase.

“Did she say that she didn’t want to be around you anymore -- that she doesn’t want to be around you anymore?”

“No,” Jaime replied miserably. “She says she still cares about me -- wants to be friends. She just can’t … you know, be with me --with me.”

“So then, she doesn’t, in fact, think you’re an asshole? She doesn’t think you haven’t changed? It’s just that she doesn’t want a romantic relationship with you at this time?”

“I guess.” Jaime shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re confusing me with all of these questions.”

Dr. Elder pulled Jaime’s notebook towards him again. “Well, why don’t we take a look at your homework then, Jaime. See if it gives us any insights?”

Dr. Elder adjusted his black framed glasses on his nose and opened up the notebook, flipping through the pages of dark, messy scrawl -- ink smeared across the lined paper. He turned to the final entry in the book and read what was written there -- five sentences scribbled in Jaime’s jagged, left-handed script:

_“You can’t change._

_You aren’t worth the risk._

_You will never be good enough._

_Your sins are too great._

_You might as well not even try.”_

At the second sentence, Jaime had jumped up and paced to the window again, not wanting to hear those thoughts spoken out loud.

“Jaime,” Elder said solemnly, waiting until Jaime turned his gaze towards him. “As you know, the power of this process is you figuring things out on your own. I am just here as a glorified facilitator -- to challenge you -- make sure that you look at all aspects of an issue -- question your judgements. So I want you to consider something for me. Will you do that?

Jaime nodded cautiously.

“Jaime, I want you to consider the idea that, just because Brienne doesn’t want to start a romantic relationship with you -- just because she doesn’t love you the way you want her to love you right now--doesn’t mean that you aren’t, in fact, worth loving.”

Elder’s words hit Jaime like a blow, and he winced, as if struck. “Doesn’t it though? Didn’t she just make it clear that I can’t come back from all of my mistakes?”

“No. The only thing that her response makes clear is that Brienne doesn’t want a romantic relationship with you at this time. It says nothing about you. You could be a model citizen -- a paragon of kindness and charity, and she still could not want a romantic relationship with you. And that’s her choice. She doesn’t owe you that, no matter how wonderful or magnanimous or changed you are. But, if we look at this past year that the two of you have spent building a friendship, it's obvious that Brienne cares about you. She enjoys spending time with you. She wants you in her life. She’s been there for you in your time of need. And she wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t feel that, if she thought you were an asshole, Jaime -- if she thought you hadn’t changed.”

Elder looked at him seriously. “You have to understand, Jaime, that people, in a romantic capacity or otherwise, can never be the prize for doing good -- for making amends. They’re people -- people who have their own fears and issues and problems that have nothing to do with you. Whether or not Brienne wants to be your girlfriend has no bearing on the work that you’ve done since the accident. It has no bearing on you, Jaime, at all.”

“It feels like it does.”

“Because you want her?”

“Yes,” Jaime groaned, running his hand through his hair.

“Well, you know as well as I do Jaime, we can’t always get what we want.”

Jaime let out a sarcastic grunt at that, rolling his eyes, “Jesus, thanks a lot, Mick. What’s next? Are you going to remind me that, if I try sometimes, that I just might get what I need?”

Elder looked at him puzzled. “Was that a joke?”

Jaime just shook his head. “Never mind.”

He sighed, leaning back on the couch. “So what should I do, then?”

“Well, that depends,” Elder replied, closing the notebook. “Do you want Brienne in your life, even though you can’t be with her romantically?”

Jaime nodded. “Yeah. Of course. I just feel like I fucked it all up. I don’t know how to be around her anymore.”

Dr. Elder pointed to the notebook. “All right, then. We focus on that. You keep doing your homework. And we keep confronting those negative voices that are telling you that you are to blame for everything. And we focus on communication and honesty in all of your relationships. And we ban words like asshole from our sessions.”

“Hey, I like that word,” Jaime protested. “Honestly, it’s my most prominent character trait. Ask anyone.”

“You know what I think, Jaime?” Elder said, taking off his glasses and using the hem of his beige sweater to polish them. He replaced them on his face and peered at Jaime contemplatively. “I think that, in the past, you may have acted like an asshole. I think that there were even times that you were proud to be considered one. However, deep down, I think you realize that it was just another one of your roles -- just a costume that you put on to help you cope -- or to win the advantage -- or to deflect away from your real feelings -- or to show people that you didn’t care what they thought of you.”

Jaime coughed, his face suddenly flushing, as Elder’s words hit their mark.

“It's easier to be an asshole than to chance really disappointing people, isn’t it?” Elder continued. “Easier to have them reject you because of your callous actions or harsh words than to have them reject you because of who you fundamentally are inside?”

The tears came suddenly, before Jaime could blink them back. “I … that’s not …I mean …” Jaime broke off, reaching up his hand to scrub his face.

“You’re doing good work, my boy,” Elder said. “You’re not the same man who walked into this office a year ago. Now, I don’t know much about these selfish assholes of whom you speak, but I am pretty certain that you are not one of them.”

“I ...shit.” Jaime looked around the room through hazy eyes. He sniffed loudly. “Damn it, Elder. Where are the fucking tissues?”

Dr. Elder simply smiled, reaching into his desk drawer for another big, gray box.

**~~~~~~~**

  
**Thirteen Years Earlier:**

_Shit._

Jaime opened the sliding glass door to the backyard and pulled it shut behind him, closing out the hum of the party raging inside.

The official Season 24 wrap party was actually scheduled for this coming weekend. And going by past history, it was sure to be a huge, blow-out affair -- catering, champagne, cast gifts, the works. However, the crew and some of the cast had shot the final scenes of the season today, and one of the grips had thrown out the idea of going for drinks -- and then one of the ADs had offered his house -- and then before anyone could plan anything, they had all congregated for an impromptu celebration with take-out chicken wings and that weird bean dip from the supermarket and mismatched six packs of cheap beer.

Jaime had almost skipped the damn thing entirely, still exhausted from the grueling week of shoots.

But Cersei had insisted. And Jaime had thought it best just to go along with her. Hells, she was already in a bad mood, largely due to the fact that Jaime had spent most of the previous two days making-out with another woman -- even though that other woman was only Brienne, and Jaime was only doing what he was paid to do.

But even Jaime’s acquiescence to the party hadn’t tempered Cersei’s mood; and she spent most of the party picking at him, muttering veiled and not so veiled insults under her breath.

In fact, when Jaime’s phone rang, he had actually been thrilled to get away from yet another one of Cersei’s pissy tirades.

Unfortunately, it was his father calling, which meant that the pissy tirades were just beginning.

“Father,” Jaime said, stepping onto the back porch and leaning against the railing of the deck.

“Jaime.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

It had been a while since Jaime had spoken to his father -- not that he was complaining or anything.

“You can cease with the attitude,” Tywin said sternly. “I am only calling to check on when you will be finished with your … little acting project. Uncle Kevan is trying to fill the summer intern positions in the home offices, and I put forth your name.”

Jaime sighed tiredly. “Father. I’m in the process of renegotiating my contract. In fact, this little acting project of mine seems to be paying rather nicely. The producers want me around for another year and are offering me an incredibly lucrative deal.”

“Jaime.” Tywin’s voice was severe. “You are twenty-four years old. It’s high time that you grew up. You can’t play at this little acting thing forever.” He sniffed in what could only be disappointment. “The fact that you are on a show about high school, of all things, is unbecoming to someone of your stature.”

“Father, we’ve been over this,” Jaime said tiredly. “I told you …”

“No. I let you have your fun, Jaime,” Tywin cut him off. “I’ve been incredibly patient while you’ve sown these wild oats of yours -- pursued your … dramatic interests. But now it’s time for you to come back home. Pay your debt to your family.”

“Father, it’s not just some lark. It’s my profession. And I’m good at it. I’m doing good work. I am. You should see the contract they are offering…”

“Jaime, I don’t have time for this. You will call Kevan tomorrow and let him know which internship position you want for the summer.”

“Father. I don’t know what I’ll be doing this sum…”

“Call him, Jaime.” Tywin’s voice was sharp, broaching no argument.

“Yes, Father,” Jaime muttered, falling into his conditioned roll.

“I will speak to you later then, son.”

“Fine.” Jaime inhaled. “Just know that …”

But Tywin had already ended the call.

“Shit!” Jaime cried to the darkness.

Why could he never fight back against the old man? Why did he always end up doing what his fucking father asked? Well, not always. He had managed to break away enough to go into acting, in the first place. Only time would tell if he would be able to break away permanently.

There was a rustling down on the other end of the deck, by the staircase leading to the lawn, and, intrigued, Jaime sauntered over to check it out.

Brienne Tarth sat on the steps, cloaked in the shadows.

Jaime hadn’t seen her since yesterday -- since she had gone completely postal and yelled at him in her dressing room.

“What are you doing out here skulking around?”

She looked up at him, her pale blue irises catching the moonlight. “I’m not sulking,” she said, her voice sullen.

Jaime rolled his eyes, still irritated from his call. “Skulking,” he repeated.

When she didn’t respond, he tried again, exaggerating his syllables slowly. “Skul - king, Brienne. You know, sneaking around, lurking in the shadows like a creeper.”

“I’m just sitting,” she said flatly, not even bothering to look at him.

Jaime shook his head.

_Gods, she was impossible to talk to. First she yells at him for being considerate and checking on her and now she won’t even look at him._

“I’m not sure if you got the memo, Brienne, but it’s a party.” He gestured back towards the glass door. “We’re meant to be celebrating.”

“I’m not in a particularly celebratory mood.”

“Wow! There’s a shocker. The reigning Miss Buzzkill not in the mood to party.”

“Piss off, Jaime,” Brienne said tiredly. However, there was no bite to her words, her shoulders sagging, as if she knew that her protest was weak at best.

Jaime suddenly found his earlier irritation deflating.

He looked at her searchingly.

_Poor kid, she looked like she had gone one too many rounds in the ring with a much bigger opponent. “Although, that opponent would have to be really, really big, now wouldn’t they, to be a match for her?” he thought snarkily._

Shaking his head again, Jaime lowered himself next to her on the steps, leaning back on his elbows to gaze up at the sky. The moon was almost full, casting a pale stream of light over the lawn and garden.

_Hells, no wonder she liked it out here. It was quiet. Peaceful even. A nice change from the shitshow of a day Jaime had just had. Maybe Tarth was onto something with her skulking._

As if uncomfortable with his proximity, Brienne moved, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them, letting out a soft sigh.

Jaime frowned, side-eying her.

She looked so young, sitting there all alone, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt -- all six foot three inches of awkward limbs.

He remembered her pained grimace -- her glassy eyes and defeated expression from yesterday.

And then, before he knew it, he was talking.

“Hey, just so you know,” Jaime said, breaking the silence but purposely not looking at her, in case she started yelling at him again. “… yesterday. When I came to your dressing room. I really was worried about you after the … um … whole love scene thing.”

Brienne didn’t move, except to lay her cheek against her knees.

Jaime coughed and tried again.

“Those scenes are a lot, and it was your first one and everything. Hells, I remember my first one. It was weird and uncomfortable and .... uh, a lot.”

She nodded, eyes still trained on the expanse of lawn. “Yeah. It was a lot.”

Her voice was tired but still full and soft, and something about it made Jaime slightly anxious. For some strange reason he felt compelled to comfort the fucking kid. Let her know that he was here for her.

_Shit. That he was here for her? Christ, Jaime get a hold of yourself. She doesn’t want your comfort. She made that very clear yesterday when she went totally crazy on your ass. She wants you to go very far away._

And yet, for some reason, he still felt the need to try.

“You were good, you know. In ... “ He cleared his throat roughly, searching for words. “In that … in our...er scenes together.”

“Thanks.” She was barely paying attention to him -- just sitting there, her chin resting on her freckled knees, peering out into the darkness.

Out of words, Jaime fell quiet, biting his lip, as the muggy air around them became heavy with his awkward attempts to show concern.

_Christ, this was stupid. She was fine. He shouldn’t worry so much about her. It wasn’t like she was super worried about him and all the pressure he was currently under, trying to decide what to do with his fucking career and his family and his life and everything._

“You’re good too, you know.”

Her words startled him, causing Jaime to sit up and look over at her.

“What?”

“You’re good,” she repeated, turning her face in quarter profile and nodding his way. “Very good, despite what your father says.”

“You heard all that?” Suddenly Jaime felt the familiar hot annoyance. That was a private conversation. That was private shit, not meant to be overheard. And certainly not by Brienne. He couldn’t help but feel like she had exposed a chink in his armor, a chink he couldn’t afford exposing.

“Hey, I was just sitting out here, minding my own business,” Brienne defended, her soft voice taking on an edge of irritation, finally sounding a little more like herself. “And it’s not like you’re super quiet and reserved or anything.”

Jaime released a huff of begrudging laughter at that. “Fair point.”

They fell silent again.

“Not the most supportive, I take it,” Brienne said, laying her chin back on her knees. “Your dad, I mean.”

“Understatement of the fucking century. He thinks all of this is bullshit.” Jaime waved his hand in the space between them. “Just me shirking my family duties -- like a gap year that’s gone on way too long.”

“Ah,” Brienne said, noncommittally.

“And he can’t stand the show. Thinks it’s just some juvenile, poorly-acted, after-school special and hates that the family name is associated with it.” Jaime pitched his voice lower, affecting a clipped, cold accent, in an imitation of his father. “It’s beneath you, Jaime. Do you know how humiliating it is to go into a business meeting and have the CFO of the Dornish branch tell me that his ten-year-old daughter has a poster of you on her bedroom wall that she kisses every night before she goes to sleep? Your grandfather would be rolling over in his grave.”

Brienne didn’t react, just kept staring out into the distance.

_Jesus, why was he sharing all this with Tarth? It was completely nuts. But he suddenly seemed to have developed a massive case of verbal diarrhea that had him spewing his life’s problems out to total strangers. Well, not total strangers, but close enough. And yet, he couldn’t for the life of him stop._

“He’s been literally counting the days until my contract is up and my character graduates.” Jaime frowned. “Thinking that I’d come to my senses and come back into the family fold. Get out of acting for good. Needless to say, he’s not exactly thrilled that I’m considering extending my contract and staying on another year.” Jaime looked at her searchingly and frowned. “But then, I guess he should join the club, eh?”

That broke her out of her reverie. “What?”

“Well, you were probably hoping to get rid of me too, huh? Is that why you’re out here sulking? The thought of having to spend another year with me?”

“I’m not sulking,” Brienne muttered in irritation. “Or skulking. I told you that.”

“Whatever.”

Jaime didn’t have the energy to argue with her, not after the week he’d had -- not after the call from his father. Not after all the meetings with his agent and the producers -- the fucking endless process of weighing his options. Should he take the incredibly lucrative contract and stay another year? Should he branch out and see what other roles were out there? Should he bow down to family pressure and go back to the family business just to get his father off of his back?

But then, it was not like Tarth was going to offer any insight into any of that. Getting anything out of her that was more than a muttered insult was like getting water out of fucking stone.

However, suddenly Brienne lifted her head from the cradle of her knees and turned to him, her blue eyes shining in the half-light of the porch. “I meant it though. What I said. You’re good, Jaime.” And then when he frowned at her. “Acting. You are good at it. Really good at it.” She shrugged almost begrudgingly, her voice resigned. “And this profession was made for people like you. You’ll be successful. I may not know much about this godsdamn business, but I’d bet my life on that.”

Jaime flushed, the warmth spreading over him in a wave. “Brienne …”

But just then there was an abrupt knock on the sliding glass door; and, startled, they both turned to look.

Cersei was standing there, on the other side of the glass, her face set in a mask of disapproval. She frowned at Jaime and pointed to her phone with one long, red-tipped finger.

“Shit. I have to go,” Jaime said, scrambling up from the steps and bumping into Brienne’s shoulder in his haste.

Cersei was going to fucking kill him.

He paused, looking down at Brienne, her pale hair backlit in the moonlight. “I’m sorry … I just …” He reached out a hand, as if to pat her on the head; but luckily, he came to his senses just in time, quickly pulling the hand back, seemingly shocked at his own forwardness. “Thanks,” he muttered instead, his cheeks bright red.

Brienne only nodded at him.

Flustered, Jaime made his way to the door, turning back to Brienne at the last second. “Have a good break, Brienne. I’ll … uh, see you next season.”

She looked up at him and blinked in surprise. “You’re coming back, then?”

Jaime frowned.

_Was he? Was he coming back?_

He met her eyes, nodding at her once --stiffly. And then, without another word, he slipped through the door and into Cersei’s waiting arms.

**~~~~~~~**

**Present Day:**

Brienne was a mess. A big fucking mess.

Oh, she tried to continue on as normal, pretend that everything was fine, pretend that Jaime hadn’t lobbed a massive, bloody grenade into the very center of her chest and left her to sort out the damage.

_Jesus, what the hells was he thinking?_

Well, he wasn’t -- thinking. That was the entire problem.

Jaime liked her?

 _ **Liked her**_ \- liked her?

After everything they had gone through?

After all of the years of shit they had suffered through?

How was that even possible?

He couldn’t like her!

Couldn’t _**like her** _\-- like her!

It was too much to even contemplate.

No -- the whole thing was ridiculous! And stupid! And kind of romantic, in a burn-everything-to-the-ground, throw-caution-to-the-wind, destructive kind of way.

_No, no, Brienne! Not romantic. Gods!_

Honestly, as if him liking her would magically make things fine -- erase all of the painful memories of the past.

No, it would only fuck up what they already had. This friendship. This close friendship that they had carefully pieced together over the past year. This friendship that Brienne depended on -- cherished even.

_Cherished? Fuck's sake, Brienne. Just stop. Just freaking stop._

But she couldn’t stop, could she? And that was the other part of the problem.

No, she couldn’t think of Jaime now without thinking of it. Of his kiss -- of his embrace -- of his declaration of -- what? His affection? His attraction? His lo…

_No, no, no._

“It’s you,” he had said. Looked her right in the eye and said it -- as if he wasn’t wrecking everything with his stupid, romantic words -- as if he wasn’t taking her up to the edge of a cliff and leaving her there to find her own way down.

Sure -- Jaime fucking Lannister, who could afford to say soft things, flirt with people, make grand gestures, even if he didn’t mean them -- even if he wasn’t thinking straight.

What did he care, if he put himself out there, jumped off that stupid cliff in a moment of loneliness or desperation or insanity? He would land just fine. What’s more, there would be plenty of people who would line up to jump off of the next cliff with him.

But for Brienne … no. No! The world didn’t work like that for her.

Still sometimes, in her weaker moments, Brienne had let herself think of it for a moment. Picture what it would be like to say yes to him -- to wave a magic wand and erase the past and just be with him. Be with Jaime.

But that couldn't be.

And it wouldn't be --

because Brienne doesn’t want it to be.

She doesn’t want to fall in love with Jaime Lannister. She’s seen what damage he can do -- do to her; and she knows that she can’t afford to take that chance. She won’t survive the fall.

Besides, what would it say about her, if she did take that chance? What would her father -- Sam -- her therapist -- say, if she fell in love with Jaime fucking Lannister? Jaime Lannister, who fought the writers because he didn’t want his character paired with hers. Jaime Lannister, who spent all those years insulting her, fighting with her, making it clear, very clear, that he couldn’t stand being around her. Jaime Lannister, who stuck by Cersei for fifteen years -- fifteen fucking years.

No! The whole thing was impossible!

How could Brienne even kiss him, without remembering their past kisses? How could she trust that, if they ever argued, he wouldn’t go low -- go for the jugular-- like he used to?

Yes, he had changed, she was sure of that. Put in the work. Faced his actions. But had he changed that much? Hells, he had still been with Cersei only a month ago.

_Shit -- what a mess. What a horrible, awful, heartbreaking mess._

_And what was she supposed to do now? What were they supposed to do now?_

She had told Jaime that nothing would change -- that they could go back to the way they were -- friends -- good friends. But that had been a lie -- because everything had changed.

Oh, she had kept her promise and called Jaime when she landed; but he hadn’t picked up.

She had left an overly-cheerful voicemail, telling him that she would call soon. And she had. The next day, in fact. But Jaime had been short and distant on the phone; and Brienne had feigned exhaustion just to get off of the call early.

No things had definitely changed.

And that was most of the problem.

The whole thing made Brienne want to cry, as she tried to hold it all together enough to get through the last of the season.

Poor Robb and Gendry had come by a couple of times, trying to cheer her out of her funk. But, in the end, her short temper and miserable demeanor had proven too much even for them.

_Gods, what was she supposed to do now?_

The knock on her trailer door startled Brienne from her maudlin thoughts.

She rose on stiff knees to answer it.

It was probably just Gendry and Robb coming to try to cheer her up again.

Damn it, she was going to have to paste on a false smile and act her way through this, or they would start to get suspicious.

Brienne took a deep breath and opened the door.

Jaime’s agent, Varys, was standing on the steps of her trailer, wrapped up in a beautiful wool and leather coat, a lavender scarf arranged around his head and neck, keeping off the wind.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, reaching out to take her hand in one of his own warm ones. “I hope Jaime let you know that I might be stopping by.”

_Oh, shit! The article. She had forgotten all about it, in the wake of Jaime’s declaration._

Brienne nodded dumbly. “Yes. He … um mentioned that you were going to reach out to me about …”

Varys frowned. “This horrible scandal,” he finished.

“Yes,” Brienne agreed, remembering her manners and stepping back out of the doorway. “Why don’t you come in? I just boiled water for tea, if you’d like a cup.”

Varys stepped into the cramped quarters of the trailer looking around at her living space in surprise. “Yes, dear. I’d very much like a cup of something hot. I can’t believe it’s still so cold here in the springtime. Does the ice ever melt?”

“Not often,” Brienne answered. “You get used to it though.”

She led him to the table, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch, as she went to the counter to arrange the tea things.

Somehow in her flustered state, she managed to put together a sleeve of cookies and tea with milk and sugar, and placed it before Varys. “Sorry,” she apologized. “If I would have known, I would have had supplies brought in.”

“Don’t apologize,” Varys smiled, taking a cookie out the sleeve and examining it. “Thank you.”

He paused, looking up at Brienne. “My dear, I am so sorry about everything.”

“Sorry about what?” Brienne stuttered. _Had Jaime told him about his declaration, about …?_

“About the article,” Varys said emphatically. “Truly beyond the pale.”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Brienne rushed to agree. _Of course, Jaime hadn’t told him about … everything._ “It’s fine,” she assured Varys. “I’m fine. It’s just words, after all. They don’t really mean anything. Honestly, I’ve been called much worse.”

“Well,” Varys tsked. “Just know that we are going to fight fire with fire.”

Brienne looked at him quizzically.

“In approximately twelve or so hours,” he began, “multiple news sources are going to publish pictures of Cersei Baratheon in various … shall we say, compromising positions with a slew of different paramours, all dating back to the time when she and Jaime were, by her own categorization, a happy, committed couple.”

“What?” Brienne choked on her tea. “No, no. You can’t publish those pictures. What about poor Jaime? He’ll be humiliated. It will be a nightmare.”

Varys gave her a knowing smile. “Jaime was the one who suggested it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He wants to neutralize any power that Cersei has. Expose her for the fraud that she is. This is the quickest way to do that.”

“But it’s going to hurt -- hurt Jaime. The whole world will see … how she cheated on him.”

“Yes, I’m sure it won't be pleasant for him,” Varys tutted sympathetically. “But the person that it will hurt the most is Cersei.” He looked at Brienne sagely. “And really, Cersei brought it on herself. I think if she had limited her attack to him, Jaime would have taken it in stride. But she attacked you, and that was one step too far.”

Brienne flushed. “Yes… well, but, I don’t know. It seems pretty harsh.” She fiddled with the spoon next to her tea cup. “God knows, I have no love at all for Cersei, and it makes me sick that she cheated on Jaime; but it’s hard enough for a woman to make it in this profession, without people debating the morality of her sex life.”

Varys gave her a strange smile. “Your objections are noted, my dear; but I’m afraid it’s too late to stop the process now.” He tsked under his breath. “Think of it as karma. We’re not spreading rumors or saying anything untrue. If Cersei didn’t want all of this coming out, she shouldn’t have done what she did. Actions do have consequences.”

Brienne sighed heavily. “That may be true, but this whole thing makes my stomach sick. Honestly, I don’t think I’m cut out for this business. It’s too cut throat.”

Varys looked at her bemusedly. “Oh my dear sweet girl,” he said, reaching over to stir another spoonful of sugar into his tea. “You really are a gem. I see now why Jaime fought for you all those years ago. Quite delightful, really.”

Brienne looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

He fluttered his hand in her direction, replacing the lid on the sugar jar. “I didn’t understand it at the time. But, it makes sense now.” Varys stopped his action, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I must say, you’ve done wonders with him, child. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d come back from that awful accident. But he’s back and even seems quite human these days. A softer version of himself, if you don’t mind the slightly sappy turn of phrase.”

“But what do you mean he fought for me?” Brienne said, still not understanding.

“Oh, you know,” Varys waved his hand dismissively. “All that nasty contract business.” He grimaced, as if he were remembering something distasteful.

Suddenly, the air shifted in the tiny room. And, without knowing why, Brienne’s skin broke out in goosebumps.

_What the hells was happening here? What was Varys saying? What contract business?_

“I don’t understand, she said. “What do you mean by contract business?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Varys raised his eyebrows, his eyes alight with surprise. “Well, surely enough time has passed to let the poor cat out of the bag.”

He smiled at her, sitting back against the lumpy couch cushions regally, spreading his hands out before him to start his story. “Do you remember around your fourth or fifth season on the show? When you were negotiating your contract and asking for more money?”

Brienne’s chin went out defensively. “It was only fair. Jaime was making five times more than I was making for the same damn work.”

Varys tutted. “Yes, yes, pet. I know. This business is horrible. Such a medievally sexist power structure.” He leaned forward and took a sip from his tea cup, wincing a bit as he swallowed. “Well, if you remember, that was the season the show was courting that Targaryen girl -- the one with the white hair and mesmerizing eyes.” He glanced at Brienne’s own white blond hair and mesmerizing eyes, cocking his head. “Are you by any chance…?”

“The contract, Varys,” Brienne redirected impatiently.

“Yes, yes. Well, she was leaving her other show -- you know, that dreadful one about those horrible, undead, crow people who dress all in black and grimace sadly at the camera; and Baelish was determined to get her. But she was expensive. They needed to free up some money. And you were demanding a higher salary, as was your due, so the producers decided that they would refuse your demands, thinking that you’d quit; and then they would hire Targaryen, and set her up as Jaime’s new love interest. Of course, if you didn’t quit, they were all set to … well, let you go.”

Brienne blanched. “What?”

Varys patted her arm soothingly. “As I said, dear, it’s a nasty business.” He looked at her strangely. “What they hadn’t counted on, however, was that Jaime’s contract was also in negotiations. Lord, they were pulling out all the stops, trying to woo him to stay an extra year, even though his character was graduating. They were absolutely desperate to keep him. Had so many big plans. They thought that they’d break you two up, have your character move away, and let Jaime play the brokenhearted boyfriend arc that culminated with a new lady love.” Varys shrugged. “However, when Jaime found out about their plan, he threw a fit. He told them in no uncertain terms that he would walk away unless Dunc and Roman stayed a couple and unless your contract was re-upped at the salary you were demanding.”

“What?” Brienne gaped.

_This couldn’t be right. Varys must have gotten this wrong._

“But … I thought…” She cleared her throat. “I thought the whole reason they wanted Jaime to stay was to keep Dunc and Roman together -- to keep the popular couple together.”

“Ah,” Varys said. “But you see, they thought it was Jaime who was, shall we say, driving the increased viewership. And since the Targaryen girl brought her own set of fans, the producers thought that they could corner the besotted fangirl market by putting the two of them together.”

“Jesus,” Brienne croaked, suddenly embarrassed.

_So the producers hadn’t changed their minds? Come around? Finally seen her worth? And Jaime? Jaime had fought....?_

_Oh fuck, how had she gotten this so wrong?_

“But, as I said, my dear, Jaime wasn’t having any of it. Wouldn’t even listen to their ideas. He was a force to be reckoned with and then some. Honestly, I thought the whole thing was insane at the time, but Jaime insisted. He told them that you were the best actress on the whole damn series and that they were mad to get rid of you. He told them that Dunc and Roman were a Westerosi institution, and that people would forget almost everything about the series but that they would always remember the two of you and what you had created. Of course, he used far more colorful language and smashed a few things. But they eventually gave in to his demands. They didn’t want to lose the whole Lannister name and public following. So you were retained, and the Targaryen girl went on to do that show about those horse people with the dodgy sexual politics.”

Brienne’s face had become progressively more white as Varys spoke. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” she finally choked out.

“Jaime insisted. He said it would ruin the dynamic between the two of you, if you knew. So we all agreed to keep it hush hush. Baelish didn’t want it out, anyway -- afraid he would alienate you.”

Varys looked at Brienne searchingly. “I honestly didn’t understand it at the time. Why Jaime was so bound and determined to fight for you. You two were certainly not known for your deep love and affection back then. And it seemed so out of character for Jaime. But I suppose he knew what he was doing. For here you are -- a steady fixture in his life -- helping him through the darkest of times.” He leaned forward. “I don’t know if anyone else could have done what you have done, my dear.”

Brienne, shook her head.

_This was crazy. Totally and completely crazy. What the hells was she supposed to do with this information? What was she supposed to think?_

Varys was looking at her, as if waiting for a response; and Brienne racked her brain to remember what he had last said. “I didn’t do anything,” she finally croaked.

He smiled and patted her hand. “Oh my dear child. I know you are smarter than that.”

He looked at her, a slightly chastising expression on his face, as if she were being purposely dense. When she remained silent, he sighed. “You did what no one else in Jaime’s world had ever attempted to do. You showed him what love looks like. Real love that doesn’t demand perfection or glory or obedience before it is given.”

“I …” Brienne choked.

_Her brain was numb. Words completely forgotten._

Varys tutted out a quiet laugh. “I see I’ve rendered you speechless. Well, give it time. You’ll understand eventually. And now,” he drained his cup, reaching down to gather up his coat and scarf, “I must be off to my next meeting.”

“Thank you for the tea and the company, my dear. I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to meet someone in this business whose first language isn’t blatant opportunism. It’s no wonder that Jaime is so fond of you.”

“I … um. Yes, well ...” Brienne rose awkwardly from her seat, following Varys to the door.

At the trailer door, Varys turned to her, taking her hands in his. “Thank you for everything that you’ve done, my dear. Jaime is my client, and, from a business standpoint, I’m glad he’s on the road to recovery. But he’s also my friend, and I care very much what happens to him.” He squeezed her hands tightly. “Thank you for happening to him.”

“Of course,” Brienne stuttered, her brain still trying to process everything that Varys had revealed. “Thank you for coming and for telling me about … um… Cersei and all of this … er, very new .... information.”

“Give my best to Jaime,” Varys said with a knowing smile, dropping her hands and turning to carefully make his way down the trailer steps. “From a PR standpoint, the two of you should stay away from each other for a while. However, something tells me that that isn’t going to happen.”

And then he gave her a wink and left her standing, mouth open in shock, on the doorstep of her trailer.

**~~~~~~~**

Brienne had no time to think about Varys’ revelation; for three minutes after Jaime’s agent had left, one of the PAs came to take her to make-up.

They were shooting her final scenes of the season.

Somehow, Brienne managed to hold it together through make-up. Managed to hold it together in wardrobe. Managed to hold it together as the director went through the blocking, the marks, the lighting cues.

It was only when she was hanging out with Robb and Gendry and Pod and Davos, standing around waiting for the sound team to set up, that Brienne had cracked.

Gendry had made one of his stupid jokes -- a lame innuendo about her and Jaime; and Brienne had snapped at him, her eyes instantly filling with tears, her face heating. She had excused herself immediately, walking off of the set, out into the cold to try to calm down.

She just needed to center herself -- compartmentalize all of this shit -- calm down and focus on the task ahead, before she lost it completely. After the shoot, she could deal with everything. After the shoot, when she was alone. When she wasn't surrounded by inquiring eyes. 

However, before she could completely steady herself, Robb showed up, concern written on his features.

“You OK, Tarth?” Robb said gruffly, coming up beside her and offering her a cup of something hot.

Brienne took it gratefully, swallowing down the warm hot liquid. “Fine.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

She shook her head, willing herself not to start crying. “No.”

Robb took a step closer, putting out a hand to touch her arm. “Come on now, Bri. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she protested. “I’m fine, Robb. Really.”

He huffed. “That may work with the others, but we’ve spent way too much time together for me to know when you’re not being honest. Come on now. You’re a horrible liar, woman. That’s why we want you at all of our poker games. Is it Lannister?”

Brienne colored. “No. Of course not.”

“Brienne…”

“It’s not, she protested. "It’s not him … really.” She blinked rapidly, her gaze skittering around the lot. “It’s … well, it’s me, I guess. I just…” Suddenly, she let out a cry of exasperation, shaking her head in frustration. “Fuck, how does anyone do this?”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. This!…” She threw out her arms. “Trust people? Open yourself up to people? It’s shit Robb. Total shit. Gods, I just want to go very, very far away where I don’t have to think of any of this.”

Robb gave her an amused smile. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Brienne muttered, wringing her hands. “Nothing happened.”

“Right. I totally believe that. I mean, you delivered those lines with such conviction.”

She groaned. “It’s just …It’s completely stupid. I mean, I shouldn’t even ... “ She shook her head in frustration. “Gah -- fucking hells.”

She looked at Robb miserably. “Fine, if you must know, Jaime told me that he likes me. That he wants to be with me.” Her words came out in a rush, her face on fire.

Robb inhaled slowly and then let out a sigh of resignation. “Yeah. I figured something like that would happen.”

“What?” Brienne looked shocked. “You did? Why? Why would you ever think that?”

“Well, hells, Brienne, it was pretty obvious that he liked you. When he was here, he hung around you like a dog in heat.”

Brienne frowned. “Gross. And he did not.”

“He did.” Robb protested. “Everyone could see it -- Gendry, Davos, me -- hells the fucking bartender at the Smoking Log said something about it.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t even believe that …”

“You know, Brienne,” Robb cut her off, holding up a hand to stop her tirade. “Sometimes I think you’re so convinced that the world is against you -- that good things are meant for other people and not for you, that you count yourself out before you can even begin.”

“Oh, yes. It’s me, is it? I’m the one who’s delusional? Who’s got this all wrong? You’ve totally lost it, Stark.”

“Have I?” Robb shrugged. “How come in all the years that I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you date anyone?”

Brienne colored. “Jesus, Robb, I’ve been shooting a series out here in the middle of freaking nowhere. I hardly see anyone not associated with the show. And, besides, even if I weren’t, it’s not like I would have a bunch of people knocking down my doors. Let’s be real, here.”

“That’s bullshit. People have been interested,” he huffed and rolled his eyes. “Bloody good people. You’ve just never even noticed because you were sure that they weren’t.”

Brienne snorted. “Right.”

“All right, let me ask you this. You are probably the most talented actress that I’ve ever worked with. How come you are not going for the big roles -- the prestigious parts?”

“I love my job,” she said stubbornly, lifting her chin. “And I’m damn good at it.”

“Yeah, I know. But why haven’t you tried to break into film or anything?”

“Hmmm… I don’t know,” she replied sarcastically. “Could it perhaps be the fact that I’m a six foot three woman with a lovely scar on my face and the wingspan of a pterodactyl? What kind of leading roles are there for me? Who’s going to cast me as the romantic heroine? Fuck’s sake, I have a deeper voice than three quarters of the leading men out there.”

“See. This is what I mean. You count yourself out before you even begin.”

Brienne frowned, her cheeks heating in irritation. “Oh, easy for you to say, _Mr. I Woke Up Looking This Way._ You wouldn’t say that if you’d had my experience in this business. If you had to hear the rejection that I’ve had to hear-- all the well-meaning ‘advice’ from the casting agents and the talent scouts and the directors.” She pitched her voice high in a mocking lilt. _“‘This is just not the business for you, dear. Maybe try stage work -- none of those nasty close-ups, you know. Maybe if you lose some weight and grow out your hair. Stoop a little, darling, try to act more like, you know, a woman. Have you thought about a boob job, sweetie? It might help people take you seriously.’_ ”

She shrugged tiredly. “I’ve had to fight my whole life to make a place for myself in this industry. Fight hard. Believe in myself when nobody -- nobody else would. You have no idea -- can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be told over and over again that this profession wasn’t made for people like you.’”

Robb reached out and grabbed her shoulder, grasping her tightly. “Yeah, but you’ve proved them wrong, Bri, haven’t you? Every one of them. You have. You’re still here. You’re here, and some of those other assholes are long gone. Shit, girl, you’re incredibly talented. Everyone here knows that. I know that first hand. Lannister knows that first hand.”

At the mention of Jaime, Brienne frowned. “I just don’t think…”

“Listen,” Robb cut her off. “I’m not going to tell you what to do about Lannister. Fuck knows I’m not exactly a fan of his. However, if you’re thinking that someone like him couldn’t fall for someone like you, you’re damn delusional.”

“Robb…”

“No, hear me out. Jaime Lannister would be the luckiest bastard in the world to land a girl like you. And he knows that. He totally knows that. So, if you don’t want to give him a chance because you don’t feel the same way, that’s completely your call. And, honestly, I don’t blame you. He’s a total tool and a half, and you could do so much better. However, if you do feel the same way and don’t want to do it because you think he can’t like you -- or that he doesn’t like you enough -- or that it won’t work because he’s industry royalty and you’re just lucky-to-make-it-in-this-profession-thank-you-very-much Brienne Tarth, then I think you’re just making excuses to try to avoid something that might require you to take a chance.”

“But you don’t understand … our history ... it’s...” She closed her eyes.

“Yeah, there is that,” Robb agreed, nodding solemnly. “And fair play to you, if you don’t want to go down that road. No one would ever blame you for not wanting to get with someone who was such a shithead to you in the past. But I don’t know … you seem like you’re upset about him liking you. And not because you still think he’s a shithead but because of the opposite.” He shrugged. “Look, I could have it all wrong -- and tell me to fuck off if I do, but it seems like you might have feelings for him too. And, if that’s the case, then you just have to do it, Brienne. Because it’s always going to be hard. And it’s always going to be scary. And it could all turn out to be shit. But it also could turn out to be good. And, if you don’t take the chance, you’ll never know.”

Brienne's eyes welled up, and she sniffed, trying to keep her emotions in check. “That’s just it, Robb. I don’t know if I can,” she croaked, her mouth trembling. “I don’t know if I have it in me …”

“Shh, come here,” Robb pulled her in for a hug, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Look, it’s not worth crying over, love. I promise. The earth will go on spinning whether or not you date Jaime fucking Lannister. I can promise you that.”

She gave out a wet laugh; and Robb pulled back, looking up into her red face. He shook his head, moving a piece of hair out of her eyes. “Honestly, Brienne, I don’t give a fuck whether or not you take a chance on Lannister,” he said gently. “I just want you to -- maybe just one time -- take a chance on yourself.”

The AD came over the speaker calling for places; and Robb chuffed her on the head fondly.

“Come on, weepy, we should get back.”

Brienne gave him a watery smile, her eyes soft. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a freaking catch, Robby Stark?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed a heavy sigh, turning to walk back to set. “Jesus, woman. Read the fucking room.”

“No, I’m serious,” Brienne protested, following him, her hand on his arm, her grin cheeky. “I’ve half a mind to go after you myself.”

Robb let out a long-suffering groan, quickening his pace. “I really don’t want to hear this.”

“No, I mean it. It’s no wonder Jeyne’s all googly eyed over you.”

He stopped and turned to her, ready to make a sarcastic quip. However, when he turned, Brienne was looking at him so earnestly, her smile brave in her blotchy face, that all he could do was to reach up and run a finger under her eye, wiping a smear of eye-makeup off of her skin.

He gave her a fond smile. “Speaking of googly eyes, love, you better head over to make-up and get a touch up. You look like a bloody raccoon.”

**~~~~~~**

_**Knights of the Seven Kingdoms, Season 4, Episode 25: “A Woman’s Kind of Courage”** _   
_**Scene 71, Take 1 A-Mark** _

_Blood is everywhere. On her hands. On her garments. On the floor of the ship. A crimson wake that marks their escape route as sure as a torch-lighted path._

_Arianne is the only one of them not wounded -- well, not wounded much._

_Gareth is stumbling forward on a twisted leg, half carrying Cedric who took a blow to his thigh that is long, but, thankfully, not deep._

_Symon has his jerkin tied around his sword arm where a blade split his skin, shoulder to elbow._

_But it is Brynden who has taken the worst of it. It is Brynden’s blood on Arianne’s hands, on the floor of the ship, filling her nostrils -- sticky and metallic._

_Somehow, against all odds, they had managed it. Managed to board the Colony Ship, packed in like salt fish into the dragonglass chamber of Symon’s’ Black Betha. Managed to somehow avoid detection long enough to smuggle Cedric into the Colony’s control room. There, it had only been a matter of minutes for Cedric to program the auto-navigational system, reset the flight pattern so that, within the hour, the Colony would suddenly and irrevocably change course, smash into the Gift like a fist, pulling its tethered city of horrors with it._

_It had been easy -- entirely too easy._

_And then it had all gone wrong._

_They had almost been home free -- had almost made it to the escape pod that they had earmarked for their retreat -- when The Burned Men had detected them._

_It had only been a few, at first. A few gruesome, horrific beasts coming at them with rough-hewn blades and flails and pikes._

_Brynden had taken the brunt of them -- held the attackers at bay, letting Arianne and the rest retreat into the passageway and slip down the halls towards the docking bay. He had taken a pike to his stomach for his efforts._

_Arianne has him round the shoulders now, Brynden slumped form in her grasp seeming much too familiar, as she manhandles him through the endless twisting corridors._

_The Burned Men are fast on their heels, easily following the trail of blood, their savage battle cries and clanking armor echoing in the dark halls of the ship._

_“Faster!” Symon cries, a few paces in the lead. “We’ll never have time to ready the ship and take off at this rate.”_

_Brynden stumbles heavily against her, as Arianne’s grip slips from all of the blood._

_“Easy,” she murmurs into his hair._

_“Gods, leave me,” he croaks. “I’m only slowing you down.”_

_She shakes her head, barely giving him her attention. “We are all wounded.”_

_“You’re not,” he forces through numbing lips._

_“Leave me, Arianne,” he tries again, trying to smile bravely at her, as she moves him forward like a rag doll. “Leave me and go. I’ll fight them off for as long as I can, which won’t be long. Heaven knows I have little blood left in me. I seem to be leaving the best of myself all over the floor of this damned spaceship.”_

_“Not an option,” Arianne grits out, quickening her pace, all but dragging him through corridor after corridor._

_Why does the ship seem to have grown in size only since this morning?_

_“Hurry!” Gareth cries. There is panic on his face. Sheer panic. Gareth is adept at nonchalance -- always ready with a witty quip or ribald joke in the face of almost anything. However the Burned Men seem to have staunched his sense of humor. He looks terrified._

_“Left! We should go left!” Cedric cries suddenly, twisting in Gareth’s grip to look back at Arianne._

_“Keep a steady course, boy!” Symon yells, not slowing down. “We don’t have time to fuck around!"_

_“No, no. I’ve mem - memorized the ship’s layout,” Cedric cries, pulling on Gareth to make him stop. He points to a pair of ancient, metal doors. “This will t-t-take us through the old engine rooms to one of the airlocks -- a quicker route to the docking bay. And m-m-maybe they won’t think to follow us.”_

_Arianne nods stiffly. It’s worth a shot._

_Cedric pries open the doors, and the troop of wounded soldiers slip into the abandoned engine room, Arianne pushing Brynden into Symon’s arms._

_She rips off her jerkin and mops the floor leading to the door, then takes ten seconds to smear the bloody cloth further along down the corridor, to set a false trail for the Burned Men to follow, before sliding into the darkness and pulling the doors closed behind her._

_They stumble carefully through the old engine room -- dust and grease and some acrid smell like piss and mold assaulting them._

_Cedric leads them to another door, which opens on creaking, rusty tracks. “This way. It’s not far now. We’re almost to the airlock which leads to the docking bay.”_

_Faint, blinking, fluorescent lights light the corridor above their heads, as they half run, half stumble, following Gareth and Cedric._

_“Here,” Cedric leads them through another doorway, into a chamber that used to be some sort of storage facility before the ship was rebuilt. He points down a darkish hall to the airlock. “The docking bay is just on the other side.”_

_Arianne breathes out a relieved breath, barely daring to hope._

_And that’s when she hears them -- clattering through the engine room, banging against the machinery with their blades._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They’ve found them._

_“Quickly,” she hisses, urging her men on._

_But the Burned Men are coming. They are coming fast._

_Arianne presses the latch on the door to the storage chamber, and the metal panels creak closed. Panting with the effort, she hauls a chunk of rusty machinery in front of the doors, before following the others into the airlock._

_“Arianne! Now! There is no time!” Gareth cries. He has Brynden’s arm over his shoulder and is all but carrying him down the corridor towards the docking bay. Symon has Cedric, grasping him in his unwounded arm._

_Shit. Shit. Shit. They will never make it in time._

_Arianne pulls her sword -- looks at her blade for a beat. “Your sword, Ser Brynden!” she yells._

_“What?” Brynden looks at her, pain etched into every line of his face. He’s about five minutes from passing out from blood loss, the dark stain seeping across his stomach, his blue eyes dulling by the moment._

_They have to get him to the ship -- tend to his wounds. Even then, it may be too late. He’s lost so much blood. So much blood._

_“Oathkeeper!” she cries, her voice rough and demanding. “Damn it, man! Throw the goddamned sword to me, Brynden! Quickly!”_

_Confused, Brynden turns in Gareth’s grip and throws her his sword._

_She catches it, the blade barely missing slicing the fingers of her right hand._

_Arianne sheathes the sword in her belt, and then, in one swift move, she shepherds Cedric and Symon through the airlock and into the hall. When they are through, she jambs the pommel of her sword into the rusty button protruding from the wall, breaking it in the process._

_There is a moment of stillness -- the longest moment of Arianne’s life -- before the room rumbles, the doors of the airlock creaking heavily as they descend._

_Unthinking, her mind solely focused on him -- on saving him, Arianne steps back into the storage chamber._

_It takes Brynden a half of a second before he grasps what she means to do, and he lunges for her, his face twisted in panic. “Fuck! Arianne! No!”_

_“Get to the ship,” Arianne cries roughly, looking up at the slabs of metal which are halfway down now._

_Gods, why are the fucking doors so damn slow?_

_“No, Arianne! Gods, please. No!” Brynden’s fighting against Gareth now, who has him by his bloody doublet, the cloth twisting violently in their struggle._

_Brynden’s face is desperate, the dullness in his eyes replaced by panic._

_But the doors are almost down, only a small sliver of space is left. Arianne ducks, looking out at Brynden one final time. Giving him the bravest smile she can muster, she manages to push the words past her terror -- past her grief. “Be brave, my love.”_

_“No! Please! Ari, I…”_

_The airlock closes, silencing Brynden’s anguished cries; and Arianne is left alone in the quiet of the storage chamber._

_However, the silence is short-lived._

_The sharp clanking of metal on metal gets louder, as they approach -- the high pitched babble of their battle cries amplifying, sending a stinging shiver through Arianne’s already frayed nervous system._

_She turns and stands in front of the barricaded door, a sword in each hand._

_The dim overhead lights catch in the ripples of red and black in Oathkeeper’s blade._

_Two swords._

_Two swords against too many._

_She has no chance._

_But maybe, if she can only last long enough, Brynden and the others will have time to get to the ship._

_It’s their only chance now._

_She’s their only chance now._

_And she must give them that chance._

_At the very least, she tells herself, she will be spared watching them die._

_The pounding intensifies, the horrible, otherworldly shrieks of the Burned Men._

_It is said that some poor souls have gone mad just from the sound - those guttural wails that scrape like blade against bone. It is difficult to concentrate -- difficult for Arianne to resist throwing down her weapons and covering her ears to stop the noise with her fingers like a little child afraid of thunder._

_They are beating on the door with their blades and their bodies -- throwing themselves against it in a frenzy to get to her -- rabid creatures set on blood._

_Arianne swallows down a panicked sob, as she waits. Waits for them to come._

_Please Gods, let it be quick._

_Let it be quick and let it be clean._

_The door splits, and the Burned Men come spilling in, over her barricade, their scarred and ravaged faces twisted into masks of savagery. Their gaping, hollowed mouths open -- sharply filed teeth snapping -- the metal pins and bars forced into their burned flesh jangling as they move._

_Arianne swings Oathkeeper, felling the first two easily, and follows with a left-handed thrust from her own sword, which slices across a scarred and burned throat like it is paper. But, before she can reset, a blade cuts her across the thigh, and she falls back against the door of the airlock, bleeding._

_She pushes off of the door and into them, swinging, blocking -- the blood spraying across her face, causing the grip of her right hand to become slippery. The sound of her pulse loud in her ears._

_Time. Time. She must give them time. Give Brynden time._

_She bellows a cry to match their own, a howl from the deepest places of her fear and anguish and anger, and retreats back into the corner of the room, kicking out with her wounded leg to stop their advance._

_She is hit again, this time across the chest. But it is shallow. Thank Gods it is shallow._

_She doesn’t feel the sting of the blade, just the cool of the blood, as it starts to flow down her abdomen._

_But there are only four of them left. Four of them coming at her, stomping, sliding on their fallen comrades, stumbling against the still warm and bleeding corpses in their blind fury._

_Arianne thrusts and brings her blade down; and the sword arm of one of the Burned Men falls to the floor, still grasping his rough-edged weapon. He screams but then falls against her heavily, before she can reset -- his head coming to rest against the side of her face._

_Before she can push him off, his teeth pierce her cheek, ripping and pulling and chewing. And suddenly she is screaming and shoving him -- her sword coming down on his neck -- coming down on his neck-- until his mouth is motionless, his jaw still, her flesh trapped in his teeth._

_She’s frozen for a moment. Disoriented. Bleeding. And that’s when she hears them. Pounding down the passageway, surging through the doorway -- more of them -- many, many more of them._

_Far too many._

_This is it._

_She thinks of Brynden. Of his blue eyes -- of the way his rusty hair curls over his forehead making him look so boyish and cheeky and handsome -- so damn handsome._

_And then, with a strangled cry, Arianne pushes out into the midst of them, slashing and hacking and chopping -- trying to take as many of them with her as she can. Slow them down as best as she can. Give Brynden time. Just a little more time._

_Fighting and fighting, until her vision goes red and foggy and her grip grows weak._

_And then she is falling, spinning -- the room a jumble of blood and pain and hot embraces and sweet caresses and broken vows and honor kept._

_And then there is only darkness._

**~~~~~~**

Ten and a half hours later, battered and bruised and so exhausted that she could barely see straight, Brienne let herself into her trailer.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, she sank down onto the couch. The stupid, uncomfortable, torture device of a couch.

She was exhausted.

Far more exhausted than she had ever been in her life.

It was like she had no blood left in her body, just withered veins, wrinkled and flapping uselessly beneath the paleness of her skin.

She stretched her arms down the cold, Formica surface of the flimsy kitchen table, letting her head sink down onto them -- letting her forehead fall against her sore biceps.

“Keep it together, Brienne,” she muttered. Or maybe she didn’t. Her ears were still ringing with the clanging of metal from today’s shoot. Her head so full of noise, she could barely think.

She just needed to breathe.

To breathe and figure shit out.

To think about everything that had happened today -- everything that she had learned -- everything that she felt -- with a clear and rational mind. To put aside emotion and simply piece it out -- slowly and methodically-- and precisely --so that she could be sure.

Figure out what to think.

What to do.

“Good,” she thought. “Good.” That’s what she would do. Just take some time to think. Here in the dark where she could be alone.

She would just rest here for a minute or two, and then she would take a hot shower and think this through.

The tears came suddenly, like a spring storm.

One moment she was breathing in the dark, the next, a giant river of despair was bleeding out of her body and onto the orangish, Formica tabletop.

She gasped, the sobs racking her frame, threatening to crack her chest in two.

She opened her mouth to take shuddering breaths, to try to fill her lungs with something other than this strange grief that seemed to be filling them from the inside.

_Jesus, what the hells was wrong with her?_

She hadn’t cried like this since she had lost her mother, her siblings, back in those dark years when loss was a part of her, grief written into the folds of her skin.

 _“I need to stop crying,”_ she thought to herself, her arms slippery with tears and snot and spit from her open mouth. _“Shit, I need to stop crying. This won’t help.”_

But it was no use.

The dam had broken, and there was no higher ground to be found. There was nothing Brienne could do but be caught up in the wash and see where it took her. Nothing she could do but surrender, even though she was so bloody bad at surrendering.

But this time she had no choice.

No goddamn choice.

She could only put her head down and move through it.

After minutes -- or possibly hours -- or possibly centuries of it, Brienne lifted her head from the cradle of her arms, blinking numbly into the darkness.

Running her hands across her face, to wipe at her swollen, bleary eyes, she sat up, taking a deep breath.

Then another.

And then another -- until her breath was the only thing that she could hear. The raspy inhalation and exhalation. The ragged whoosh of air filling her lungs and feeding her blood.

She put a hand to her neck and felt the thrum of her pulse -- the blood pumping through her heart, thumping in her chest like the solid, steady beat of an advancing army.

“You are here,” it seemed to say. “Here. Here. Here.”

And when she had blocked out all of the other noise -- when she had blocked out the million different voices in her head telling her that she had it wrong -- that she was stupid for believing -- that things just didn’t work out for people like her -- that she, of all people, should know better.

When only the sound of her pounding heart remained, Brienne reached over and picked up her phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you go, kids. A little bit of a trick. A little bit of a treat. But definitely given with a whole lot of love. 
> 
> Shoutout to jwolfgold, who, I think, might have had this “Kingslayer secret” figured out way back in Chapter 13. 
> 
> When I started this thing, I wanted Jaime to have “that one good deed” that no one knew about -- “that one good deed” that made Brienne instantly have to reevaluate some of her ideas about him. However, I was trying to get away from all of the murdery, incestuous canon stuff in this modern AU. Thus this toned-down “Kingslayer secret” was born. No killing -- no saving a half a million lives -- but still something significant that impacted Brienne’s perception of him. It doesn’t excuse Jaime’s past behavior, by any means; but it does add another layer to his characterization -- for, as we all know, our boy Jaime contains multitudes. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for all of your incredible support. It continues to buoy me through the power outages (so many days without power this week), and the fire danger, and the never-ending chaos that seems to be our world these days (fingers crossed for good election results). 
> 
> You are so damn kind; and I am so damn grateful. 
> 
> Happy Halloween, boys and ghouls and everyone in between and beyond!


	22. To Let Myself Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that the "Westerosi" scenes are written out of order. This one comes after the scene in Chapter 20.

**“To Let Myself Go”**

**Ane Brun**

**“To let myself go**   
**To let myself flow**   
**Is the only way of being**   
**There's no use telling me**   
**There's no use taking a step back**   
**A step back for me”**

**~~~~~~**

**Twelve Years Earlier:**

**_Westerosi_ , Season 23, Episode 17, Scene 45: “All In”**

_She’s been standing outside of the stupid gym for ages now._

_The hall is deserted, Westerosi’s student body long gone in that frenzied, manic exodus that marks the final bell of seventh period._

_As if the building knows that it’s no longer needed, the heat clicked off twenty minutes ago; and the gray, concrete corridor has now started to resemble a walk-in freezer._

_Practice should be over by now._

_Dunc shifts her weight from foot to foot, her book bag spinning on its straps, heavy in her hand, as she stands, half-leaning against the cold metal of a bank of lockers facing the gym’s entrance._

_“Just go in,” she tells herself firmly, pissed off at her own reluctance._

_This is so stupid._

_She needs to catch Roman before he leaves. Needs to talk to him._

_She could have ambushed right after practice ended. But she was hoping that, if she waited long enough, she could maybe catch him alone -- not have to deal with his teammates -- not have to deal with the raised eyebrows and half-veiled smirks of derision. They tolerate her, as Brandon Duncan’s kid sister. Hells, Brandon wouldn’t let them do anything other than tolerate her. But if Brandon weren’t there, Dunc’s not quite sure that their tolerance would last._

_But she needs to do this. She’s been putting it off for too many days now. Roman needs an answer. He deserves an answer. In his messy, chaotic, slash-and-burn-and-never-look-back, Roman Webber kind of way, he has laid it all out there -- dumped his heart at her feet and left it there for her to do what she wants with it._

_And she … well, in her cautious, over-thinking, Dunc Duncan kind of way, she has, of course, put him off -- telling him that she needs time. Time to think. Time to figure things out._

_Roman’s been distant since that night in her bed; but then that’s to be expected. He’s still reeling from the grief of losing his dad -- still trying to adjust to a world that insists on marching forward, even though, for Roman, everything has come to a screeching halt. It breaks her heart to see him struggling -- to see him trying to work up enough effort to care about trig or argumentative essays when his world has been completely upended. But the thing that breaks Dunc’s heart even more is the way he looks at her -- hopeful, afraid, almost awed -- as if she holds all the answers to his confusion._

_But she doesn’t._

_She doesn’t at all._

_She can’t be what he needs her to be. She’s only sixteen and spends most of her time confused as all heck about her own place in the world. How the hells is she supposed to help him find his own?_

_Dunc had stayed up most of the previous night writing in her stupid journal. Using those ridiculous, glittery, colored pens that she loves so much, the kind that smell like artificial cherries and vanilla, and making list after list of pros and cons -- trying to imagine how it would work -- how a relationship with Roman Webber would even work._

_With Roman Webber -- beautiful, popular, sometimes incredibly cruel and impossibly fickle Roman Webber._

_Hells, the last time she had taken a chance on him, Roman couldn’t even keep it together enough to be with her for more than a few hours. He had kissed her and then turned around and betrayed her the minute his sister and her friends had shown up._

_And Dunc can’t go through that again._

_She can’t._

_And that’s the problem, isn’t it?_

_Roman thinks she’s so strong -- thinks that she’s this solid force that can withstand all the bullshit the world throws at her. But he’s wrong. Dunc may have the body of a warrior, but her heart is softer than most._

_Besides, this is no time to start a relationship. Roman is grieving, for Pete’s sake. It’s like what that frizzy-haired, middle-aged counselor from the county health department had said at that assembly last week -- the one on depression and grief that Roman and Raina had cut because “fuck the stupid school, for making things even harder” -- grief does strange things to a person, makes them act out --make impulsive decisions._

_Roman is probably only reaching out to Dunc because he feels sad and lost right now -- which is fine, totally fine. Dunc wants him to reach out to her. But she can’t risk losing her heart in the process._

_She would gladly give the boy anything that she has, if it would take away some of his hurt. But she can’t give him that, can’t give him her heart, because what would she have then? What would she be left with the next time he changes his mind -- the next time his sister calls -- the next time he feels the pressure from his family and friends?_

_So Dunc’s decided that it has to be "friends." For both of their sakes._

_She will be there for Roman. Help him through his grief and pain. Support him in any way she can. But that’s as far as it can go._

_Now she just has to tell him._

_Lost in her thoughts, Dunc barely hears the click of the gym doors, before Doran Goode pushes his way past them, sauntering out into the hall, a gym bag over his shoulder, his dark hair wet and disheveled._

_He comes to a halt in front of her, looking at Dunc with those movie star eyes of his, all dark and shiny, lined with smudges of black lashes._

_Dunc braces herself for a confrontation._

_“You looking for Webber?” He nods at her, his expression unreadable._

_“Yeah,” she rasps, her nerves scraping over her vocal chords._

_Doran is Raina’s right-hand man. An asshole just on principle and damn proud of it too._

_Doran half turns, looking back at the gym doors. “He’s still in there. Running shooting drills. He’s been at it forever. Won’t stop.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Dunc doesn’t know what to say. Maybe if she just stands here, Doran will forget she’s here and walk on by; and she can avoid any unpleasantness._

_Doran cocks his head and then gestures back towards the gym. “You should go in. Go talk to him.”_

_Dunc can only nod dumbly._

_Why is he being so nice? Doran is never nice. At least, not to her._

_“He’s…” Doran breaks off, reaching up a hand to run through the wet strands of his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “Both of them are taking it pretty hard,” he finally says. “I mean, I would too. Fuck, I can’t even imagine losing my dad.”_

_He looks up at Dunc, and his expression almost softens._

_“Maybe you can talk to him. Get through to him. You should go in.”_

_He looks at her, waiting for her to do something; and Dunc scrambles to comply._

_“Yeah. All right.” She heaves her bag up on her shoulder and starts to make her way past Doran to the door, purposefully not looking at him -- not trusting this weird truce to last for more than a minute._

_However, as she passes, he catches her arm, holds her still for a few seconds, just looking at her._

_He seems to read something in her own startled gaze, for after a few moments of silence, he nods. “Good luck, Duncan.”_

_“Thanks,” Dunc squeaks, waiting frozen until he releases her._

_Finally, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek, Doran gives her a small almost-smile, before dropping her arm and walking off towards the school exit._

_When he is gone, Dunc releases the breath that she is holding, squares her shoulders, and makes her way into the gym._

_Roman is down at the other end of the court, shooting three-pointers. He’s in his normal practice uniform of black basketball shorts and high-tops, his t-shirt dark with sweat._

_He’s hitting them tonight. Each shot arching expertly through the hoop, bouncing once against the paint, before Roman catches it and dribbles back to release the next one._

_He’s all muscle and concentration and grace; and Dunc stands back and just watches._

_It’s stupid how attractive he is._

_A high school boy shouldn’t be that attractive._

_And what a joke -- what a goddamn, stupid cosmic joke -- that this boy likes her, thinks he wants her._

_Dunc sets her bag on an empty bleacher and then quietly lowers herself down next to it._

_Roman doesn’t notice he has an audience, until one of his shots hits the backboard and spins off to the sidelines. He jogs to retrieve it and finally notices Dunc sitting in the stands._

_He freezes, looking at her -- and then picks up the ball, palming it against his hip, and slowly walking over to where she is sitting._

_He comes to a stop right in front of her. “Hey.”_

_He is sweaty and breathing hard, his face simultaneously hopeful and guarded. “How long have you been here?”_

_Dunc gives him a nervous smile. “Only a few minutes. You look pretty good out there.”_

_Roman turns his head to look back at the basket, as if he’s forgotten where he is. “Yeah, well, it’s the only thing that clears my head these days.”_

_He shifts back to face Dunc. “What are you doing here?”_

_She clears her throat, forcing herself to keep looking at him, even though she wants to look anywhere else._

_Gods, she doesn’t want to do this._

_“I thought we could talk.”_

_A shadow instantly falls across Roman’s face. She can see him closing himself off to her; but he bites his lip and nods, running his arm across his forehead to wipe the sweat off his hairline. “Yeah,” he says tiredly. “I figured.”_

_Roman lowers himself down onto the bench next to her; and she can feel him -- feel his warmth -- smell that mix of deodorant and sweat and the last vestiges of his cologne that is so Roman. And suddenly Dunc’s forgotten what she came to tell him._

_He places the ball down on the floor, rolling it around with his foot distractedly._

_“How are you?” she says, stalling. She’s good at stalling._

_He shrugs, as if he can’t believe she’s asked him that. “Living the life.”_

_Dunc frowns and reaches out to touch his forearm; and he looks at her, his eyes heating._

_“I’m so sorry, Roman.”_

_“I know,” he nods; and suddenly the heat from his body is too much._

_She withdraws her hand and inches back to safer ground._

_“Listen,” she tries, and her voice sounds stupid -- high and shaky, as if she’s a little girl. “Listen,” she tries again. “I’ve been thinking. A lot. About … about what you said. That night, in my bed…” She breaks off, her face heating in a stinging blush. She still can’t believe it. That night. The two of them in her bed, Roman half-naked, shivering in her arms._

_Roman gives her a smirk, raising one eyebrow knowingly. “Have you now?”_

_Freaking Roman. He could be facing public execution and still shamelessly flirt with anyone who would listen._

_“Yeah,” she rushes on._

_She just needs to do this. Rip the band aid off before she can talk herself out of it._

_“I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now, Roman. You and me. I just don’t see how it could work. And you are already dealing with so much. With your dad and your family. I just think starting a relationship right now would be a mistake. I mean, you are grieving and everything; and I think you just need some time to …”_

_“Stop it.” He nudges the ball with his foot hard and sends it spinning across the court._

_“Roman …?”_

_“No,” he says, his green eyes flashing. The flirtatiousness is gone from his expression. He looks ready to fight. “Everybody’s been telling me what I need since this all happened; and I’m sick of it. I’m fucking sick of it.” He shakes his head. “If you don’t want to do this, fine. That’s fine. But at least be honest about it. Don’t try to pass it off on me. Don’t tell me that I don’t know what’s good for me or I don’t know what I want. I know what I fucking want, Dunc. I want you. I told you that. If you don’t want me, that’s your choice. But say that. Look me in the eye and say that you don’t want this -- you don’t want me. And I will leave you alone.”_

_“It’s not like that,” Dunc says miserably. She wants to touch him again, but she’s afraid of what her body will do, if she gets too close. “It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s not that simple.”_

_He turns to her, angling his body so he’s straddling the bench, looking at her full-on. “It is that simple.”_

_“Roman, the last time we did this …”_

_“I fucked up. I know,” he interrupts her angrily. His hands on the bench are turning white where he is grasping the corners of the wood tightly. “I know that. I know that I’ve been an asshole, Dunc. I know that I’ve hurt you. I know that I let my family -- my friends -- my fucking insecurity mess up the best thing that I’ve ever had. Don’t you think that I know that? Don’t you think that I beat myself up about that all the goddamn time? Because I do. I do! I’ve replayed that day at the fair in my head a million times. What if I had just stood up to her? To Raina? Told her to fuck off? Damn it!” He looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a second. “I fucked up, Dunc.” He looks back at her. “I won’t do it again.”_

_“Roman,” she says softly. Her hand reaches out, hovers over his, before landing -- her fingers trying to coax his to release the bench. “I know you’re hurting right now. Feeling alone, and I must seem…”_

_“Christ, just stop!” he cries, shaking off her hand. “You think I’m hurting?” he spits out. “Well, you’re right, I am. I miss my dad. I miss the stupid asshole. I’m mad that he died. I’m mad that I never got the opportunity to tell him how much he’s fucked me up. How he’s made me doubt every, little thing about myself -- made me think that my own thoughts and wants and dreams are childish and stupid and wrong.”_

_He leans forward on the bench, into her space. “I am hurting, Dunc. I miss him and I hate him and I’m mad and I’m grieving and I'm a mess. But that has nothing…” He looks up at her, his eyes bright green, sharp. “Nothing to do with you. With me wanting you.”_

_“But, Roman, you can’t really believe ...” Dunc tries, but he won’t listen._

_“Stop using me.”_

_She pulls back at that, straightening her spine at the accusation. “Excuse me?”_

_He’s full-on angry now, the Webber temper out in full force. “Stop using me as an excuse not to do this.” His voice cuts, his tone dangerously cold._

_“Roman, I think…”_

_“Yeah, I know you think. You think all the goddamn time. That’s the problem. But, you want to know what I think? I think you want this too.” He narrows his eyes, looking at her calculatingly. “I see it every time you look at me. Every time we brush up against each other. When you held me in your bed that night. I think you want this too, but you’re afraid. And, fine, you have good reason to be. But, instead of admitting it -- that you want this and you’re afraid -- you give yourself every excuse in the book. ‘He’s grieving. He’s not in his right mind. It will never work. We’re too different. He’s an asshole,’ which, OK, you’re right about that one; but you’re wrong about everything else, Dunc.” He swallows, falling silent._

_“Look,” his voice is suddenly hoarse, as if he is about to cry. “If I’ve learned anything from these past few weeks it’s that I have to stop listening to everyone else. I have to stop living my life for them. I have to stop being the person that people think I am and start being the person who I really am. And this is me, Dunc.”_

_Damn him, he HAS started to cry now, a few tears sliding down his face, making him all the more beautiful in his sorrow. And all Dunc wants to do is to pull him into her arms and hold him._

_“Here’s the thing,” he says, not caring about the tears, not even bothering to wipe them away. “And I want you to really hear this. Really hear me.” He moves closer to her on the bench, reaching out to put a hand on her upper leg._

_Dunc is rooted to the spot, pinned under the warm weight of his hand, too stunned to react._

_“I’m sad, and I’m terrified, and I want you,” he says roughly, his fingers hot on her thigh._

_“I’m an asshole, and I fuck-up a lot, and I want you.”_

_She opens her mouth to stop him; but he refuses to let her._

_“I know it’s going to be hard, and people are going to be shit, and I want you.”_

_He moves closer. “I know I’m going to disappoint you over and over again, and I want you.”_

_He blinks, the tears catching in his dark eyelashes. “I fully realize that there’s a very good chance that you will break my heart. Shit, you will, Dunc, you will, I know it … and still, goddamn it, I want you.”_

_He breaks off then, breathing hard and staring at her bravely. Waiting for her to say something._

_Dunc opens her mouth, but then closes it again. Then, before she can even stop to think, she launches herself at him -- her body sliding across the bench, her hands coming to his face, pulling him towards her, her mouth landing on the corner of his, off-center and off-balance and sloppy and beautiful._

_He grunts in surprise and grabs the back of her legs, pulling her onto his lap, pulling her into him -- kissing her and kissing her -- his hands on her back, his mouth hard on hers, the relief and frustration bleeding out of him, as he sucks on her lower lip, licks a warm path across her mouth, parting her lips, his breath hot on her face._

_All of Dunc’s careful caution is left on the bench, sitting there with her abandoned book bag, as she tightens her legs around him, pushes her mouth onto his, as if she’s done this before -- as if this is her._

_Gods, she’s out of control. She’s totally lost it, and this probably won’t end well. She will probably end up getting hurt -- probably end up getting her heart broken. And she can’t even make herself care -- not with Roman’s hands around her, his mouth hot on hers._

_Finally, when she is out of breath, her mouth sloppy and wet -- when she is flushed and loose and disoriented, she pulls back, still holding his head in her hands._

_She looks at him for a long moment, at his beautiful face, and then smiles at him softly._

_He smiles in return -- a real smile this time, one she hasn’t seen in weeks. He licks his lips, leaning his forehead against hers, his hands smoothing up and down her back, his breath quick and hot._

_“Crap,” she groans, both exasperated and embarrassed. “I came here to tell you that we should just be friends.”_

_“Oh, we can still be friends,” Roman replies lowly, his eyes dark with something she can’t quite name, doesn’t know if she wants to. “We can be…Really. Good. Friends.”_

_She sighs. He’s incorrigible; but he can make her blush like no one else._

_She runs her thumb across his face gently. His tears are long gone now, replaced by that smug smirk that is so Roman Webber that it should be trademarked._

_“I don’t think even good friends do this,” she says primly, trying not to show how much he’s affected her by just his look. But her knees slip against the varnished wood of the bleacher, and she accidentally shifts in his lap._

_That stops his flirtiness instantly. Instead, he closes his eyes and inhales sharply, reaching out to still her body. “You may be right,” he mutters, his voice strangled from the effort of holding it together._

_Not understanding his predicament, only knowing that she’s won the point, Dunc grins. “I’m always right,” she says cheekily._

_However, he just looks at her, his green eyes smoky in the dull, fluorescent lights of the gym. “Not always,” he says and leans in to kiss her again -- sweetly this time, his lips soft against hers. “But I still like you just the same.”_

_“Lucky me,” she murmurs into his mouth._

_“No,” Roman says solemnly, his fingers rubbing against the tiny strip of skin that lies exposed between her jeans and where the hem of her t-shirt has ridden up. “Lucky me.”_

_And then he leans in and kisses her again._

**~~~~~~~**

  
**Present Day:**

The meeting room that Tyrion had booked was a dump.

The fake, wooden tabletop was peeling, the chairs squeaked, and the blinking fluorescent tube light over the center of the table was about two seconds away from giving Jaime a seizure.

When Jaime had first walked in, three long hours ago, he had almost turned around and walked right back out again.

This was not the image that they wanted to present to potential investors -- not the fucking image at all.

How could they convince anyone that they could run a damn production company, if they couldn’t even book a decent meeting place for their pitch?

“It’s fine,” Tyrion had grunted, waving away Jaime’s concern and trying to dab at a dark, oily stain with his handkerchief and bottled water.

“It looks like the room that dreams go to when they die.”

However, Tyrion had only laughed and told Jaime to trust him.

Putting on a show was Tyrion’s forte. Getting people to believe in his ideas -- to buy into his plans? That’s what Tyrion lived for -- what he excelled in! After all, he had had a lifetime of practice convincing people to see past his shortcomings and believe in his mind, his brain power, his ideas.

And this project was no different. No, this stupid, shabby conference room in some random back alley of King’s Landing was a crucial part of the story that they were selling.

It was a story that Tyrion and Jaime had been perfecting for months now. A story that Jaime had kept close to his chest, afraid that, if he spoke it into reality, it just might crumble into nothing before it could take root. He hadn’t even told Brienne, even though she had been the first to put the idea in his head.

It had been back before they were friends -- back when Brienne merely tolerated him, because he was broken and hurting, and she felt sorry for him.

Jaime had been going on and on about the misery of his life, and Brienne had called him out on his bullshit. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he was unhappy with the parts out there for rapidly aging, amputees past their prime, why not just pay someone to write parts for him?

And that off-hand comment had percolated in Jaime’s subconscious, bubbling out one night in a drunken conversation with Tyrion.

Why not start a production company? How difficult could it possibly be?

It might have been the whiskey, but Tyrion had been incredibly easy to convince. He was dead bored with his job in the financial sector of King’s Landing and quite liked the idea of venturing out into the glitz and glamor of the film industry.

Of course, Jaime had warned him, the whole purpose of this production company would be to get away from that glitz and glamor. To get away from the superficial crap and to tell real stories about real people -- unvarnished, straightforward, warts and all.

Tyrion had been ecstatic. He had immediately called any investor whom he thought would be interested -- working long-hours into the night to put together a presentation that was both financially solid and compellingly dramatic. And what a fucking story he was selling. A story about a member of industry elite who had suffered a life-changing accident and had come to the realization that the true drama and beauty of the human experience couldn’t be conveyed by huge, greenscreen blockbusters with massive CGI effects and photoshopped perfection. No, the true art of the human experience lay in the dirty, messiness of reality -- in the pain and in the tears and in shit and the ugly beauty of it all.

And this absolute dumpster of a meeting room was just part of the plan to sell that story -- to peel back the meaningless trappings of what people had come to think of as the film industry and to get down to the authentic experience of the story that they wanted to tell.

And it seemed to be working. Against all odds, it seemed to be working.

Tyrion had presented their proposal in a slick song and dance number complete with a slideshow of complicated facts and figures -- the capital they had (pooled from their inheritance and a generous investment from Aunt Genna); the capital they needed to make this dream a reality; the list of connections Jaime and Varys had in the acting world; the list of connections Tyrion had in the world of business; the list of connections Bronn had in the trades. Tyrion had deftly and expertly presented their vision -- the potential stumbling blocks that they could face and plans for mitigating those blocks.

At one point, Noho Dimittis, an old business connection of Tywin’s from his days in Braavos, had asked if the brothers had their father’s backing on the proposal.

Tyrion had stilled and looked to Jaime; and Jaime had answered honestly.

No, Tywin wouldn’t be backing this venture. He thought the arts a complete waste of time and money -- the film industry a wasteland of human potential and regressive narcissism.

The table had fallen silent; and Jaime had thought for a long moment that they had lost them.

But then Dimittis had laughed.

“Good,” he had cackled. “The less I have to deal with that pissy cunt the better. Tywin wouldn’t know a good movie if it snuck up and bit him in the ass.”

And, in the end, the Lannister brothers had done it.

They had obtained the backing that they needed.

Against all odds and the explicit wishes of their father, Tyrion and Jaime were to be the proud, principal owners of their own fucking production company.

When the investors had left, Tyrion and Bronn shepherding them out into the dingy parking lot and into their awaiting luxury vehicles, Jaime sat at the run-down conference table contemplating what had just transpired.

_This was huge._

_Monumental._

_A fucking production company._

_He was part owner in a fucking production company._

“For what it’s worth, I think you will be quite successful,” Varys broke into Jaime’s reverie.

“What?” Jaime shook his head to clear it, focusing on his agent who still sat across the table from him, sipping on lemon water, no ice.

“You’ve been in the industry enough to know how to play the game now, my boy. You know what sells. What works. How to use your influence to get what you want.”

Jaime exhaled heavily, the weight of this new venture suddenly daunting beyond belief. “I hope to Gods you’re right.”

“And speaking of using your influence,” Varys pulled a tablet out of his bag, turning it on, and sliding it across the table to Jaime.

“What’s this?”

Jaime picked up the tablet in his left hand, glancing down at the screen. It was a clip from a popular, entertainment news program.

Leaning the tablet against his prosthetic, Jaime pressed play.

The video was from earlier that day. It showed Cersei, surrounded by paparazzi, trying to make her way to her car in the midst of shouted chaos.

**_“Cersei, what do you have to say about the photos of you and Kettleblack? They were taken while you were still with Jaime Lannister. Is it true that you cheated on Lannister with multiple men, when he was in the hospital recovering from his accident?”_ **

**_“Did the hand gross you out, Cersei? Is that why you slept with Kettleblack and his brother?”_ **

**_“I hear that the Lannisters might be suing you for defamation over the interview you gave to The Whisperer? Was any of that interview true? How did you think you were going to get away with such boldface lies?”_ **

Cersei, dressed in a red, slinky pantsuit, looked about one second away from committing mass murder.

At one point, she stopped and screamed obscenities at the journalists -- throwing her takeout coffee cup at the nearest poor sod, hitting him in the face.

It looked like a scene from a Greek tragedy, the Chorus of Athenians finally turning on the supposed protagonist in a fury of babbling, vengeful justice.

The video came to an end, and Jaime shut off the tablet, frowning contemplatively.

“It’s just the start of things,” Varys said softly.

Jaime nodded.

“She may push back.”

“I expect her to,” Jaime replied. “But she now knows what we’re capable of. Maybe she will think twice.” He sighed heavily, sliding the tablet back to Varys, his face pained.

“Are you regretting it?”

“No,” Jaime said seriously. “It had to be done. It’s distasteful; but it had to be done. I couldn’t have her controlling that story -- hurting innocent people.”

“Speaking of innocent people,” Varys said archly, raising one slim eyebrow. “Have you spoken to our lovely Brienne Tarth today?”

Jaime shook his head, running a tired hand over his face.

Brienne had called him last night; but he had let it go to voicemail. He just couldn’t deal with any of that right now. Now with the big meeting looming and the proposal and the million things he had to think about. He couldn’t listen to Brienne’s awkward attempts to try to make everything normal again -- not on top of all the other bullshit.

He sighed, the fingers of his left hand tracing a cigarette burn on the fake wood of the tabletop.

He should have called her back. He should call her back. There was no reason not to.

He’d been telling the truth in Elder’s office when he insisted that he wanted Brienne in his life, in whatever capacity he could get her.

He just didn’t know how to do it. How to fix what he had broken when he had spilled his damn heart to her.

Varys was looking at him pensively.

“No,” Jaime repeated. “I haven’t spoken to her today.”

Varys nodded in affirmation. He waved his hand, gesturing to the room. “Well, Jaime, perhaps you should call her. Tell her about all this. Quite the news, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jaime agreed. “I should. I will … call her. Later -- when I’m back home.”

“All right, then,” Varys murmured, gathering up his coat and bag. “I think I’ll head out then. With all of the traveling I’ve been doing for our little ...shall we say, countergambit, I have barely slept in my bed this entire week.”

Jaime rose, holding out his hand to Varys. “Thank you,” he rasped. “For handling the Cersei situation. For helping us with this proposal. For being willing to let me try producing, even though I’ve never done it before. Seriously, Varys, I don’t know how I would have managed any of this without you.”

“Of course, Jaime,” Varys replied, squeezing Jaime’s hand, the rings on his fingers pressing into Jaime’s flesh. “I am very proud of you, you know.”

Jaime gave him a faint smile; and Varys leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Call her,” he said, his voice firm, broaching no argument. “Something tells me the two of you will have a great deal to talk about.”

**~~~~~~~**

Jaime did not, in fact, call Brienne.

He thought about it for a hot second -- calling her and telling her about the meeting, about his new career. However, he was afraid.

Brienne had called him last night -- late last night-- really, really late -- and she hadn’t left a message. In Jaime’s experience that didn’t bode well.

Why would she be calling so late? Considerate, mindful Brienne Tarth would never have risked waking Jaime up unless it was something important. And what could possibly be important after … everything that had happened after the set visit? What could Brienne possibly have to say to him at one thirty in the fucking morning?

And she hadn’t left a message. Nothing. Not even to tell him not to worry.

No, there was only one logical explanation for her late night call.

She wanted to break things off.

Jaime had made her so uncomfortable with his needy confession that she just couldn’t be around him anymore. Although she wouldn’t ever say it like that -- not to his face -- not Brienne. No, she would simply say that they should take a little time to figure how to go forward. And then she would stop calling -- stop coming to visit -- invent new ways to be busy and occupied. Shit, she had probably called to let him know that she wouldn’t be coming out to King’s Landing next week after her season wrapped. And then Jaime would be forced to act gracious and understanding, all the while slowly dying a painful death inside.

Damn it -- that was probably it. That was why she called. And that, right there, was why Jaime didn’t relish the thought of calling her back, even to share his news with her.

“Penny for your thoughts, brother,” Tyrion said, taking a gulp of his whiskey.

Once home and changed out of their finery, the two of them had decided to order in a celebratory meal and toast their new venture with some very old and very expensive whiskey that Tyrion had been saving for just such an occasion.

“They are hardly worth a penny,” Jaime replied, his own drink untouched in his hand. “Best save your money.”

“Hmmm…” Tyrion mused. “You know, it’s strange. You seem rather down for someone who is now a principal owner of a production company. Tell me, Jaime, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” Jaime demurred, waving off Tyrion’s concern.

He hadn’t brought Tyrion up to speed on what had gone down with Brienne. It was too humiliating. Too damn heartbreaking to get into.

“I’m ecstatic that it all worked out,” Jaime insisted, trying to infuse his voice with a little enthusiasm to placate his brother. “Really, I am. I’m just tired ... and hungry, I guess.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. And then, when Jaime didn’t respond, “Well, you’re in luck, then.” He checked his phone. “The Thai food should be here any moment now.”

Jaime nodded, taking a sip from his glass. “Christ, I can’t believe we pulled it off.”

Tyrion grinned. “We were good, weren’t we?”

“You were good.” Jaime huffed in admiration. “Honestly, Tyrion, have you ever thought about going into acting, yourself? You had those old coots eating out the palm of your hand.”

“Ah, brother,” Tyrion chuckled. “I’m afraid, with the dearth of roles available to someone of my particular stature, that acting is pretty much a reach too far.”

Jaime laughed, his mouth curling up in a sardonic smirk. “Yes, if only you had your own production company to write roles for you, produce movies for you...”

Tyrion winked and raised his glass in a mock toast. “I’ll settle for producing movies for you, Jaime. In all honesty, I can’t wait to see you back on the big screen again.” He took a sip of his drink. “And you know who else is going to be excited to see you back in the saddle? Brienne. Have you called and told her the news yet?”

“I will later,” Jaime said vaguely. “I want to sit with it a bit. Let it sink in.”

“Maybe the two of you can act together again.” Tyrion grinned and slapped his hand against his leg for emphasis. "The return of _Westerosi’s_ Dunc and Roman! Imagine what the press would do with that.”

Jaime grimaced, shaking his head. “No. I don’t see that happening. Too much water under that particular bridge.”

“Did something happen, Jaime?” Tyrion looked up at him sharply. “Between the two of you? You and Brienne? You seem different, lately. Distant.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime protested. “Just tired from all of the work I’ve been doing on the project and, you know, handling the whole Cersei thing.”

“Oh, yes, I saw the way you handled that one,” Tyrion smirked, his eyebrows raised. “It’s all over the news. Excellent work, big brother. Who knew you had it in you? Father would be so proud.”

“Gods, don’t say that. I didn’t want to do it. It’s just … she went after Brienne and …”

Tyrion held up his hand. “Look, you don’t have to excuse yourself to me. It was a long time coming; and Cersei completely deserved it all. Every damn thing. But tell me, what did Brienne think about it? Was our Lady of Honor and Truth appalled to be tarnished by something so tawdry and spiteful?”

“I haven’t spoken to her yet.” Jaime shook his head. “Like I said, I’ll call her later.”

The doorbell rang; and Tyrion got up to pay for the food.

Jaime leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes.

_Damn, what a day. What an exhausting, exhilarating, terrifying, emotional roller-coaster of a day._

“Holy shit!” he heard Tyrion exclaim from the foyer. “Brienne! What the hells are you doing here?”

Jaime sat up, knocking over his drink and spilling two fingers of expensive whiskey on his pants.

“Is this a bad time?” Brienne’s voice sounded anxious, nervous.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

_Why was she here? Why had she come?_

_He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready for this at all._

“No! Of course, not. It's a great time!” Tyrion cried, laughing.

There was what sounded like a scuffle but was probably just Tyrion trying to hug Brienne without putting his face directly in her crotch.

“We were just talking about you. Come in! Come in! Jaime will be thrilled to see you.”

Jaime set his empty glass down on the side table, using his good hand to try to smooth out the stain of liquid on the leg of his sweatpants. Luckily the pants were dark, and the stain didn’t show much; however, unfortunately, Jaime now smelled like a freaking distillery.

“Jaime, look who’s here!” Tyrion cried, leading Brienne into the sitting room.

She paused awkwardly in the entry, looking at Jaime with nervous, jumpy eyes.

Brienne looked rumpled -- uncomfortable -- like she wanted to be anywhere but there. She was dressed informally in leggings and an old, blue _Knights of the Seven Kingdoms_ sweatshirt, a fall of her pale, short hair almost covering one eye, her eye make-up smudged, as if she had just woken up. A duffle bag was slung over her shoulder.

_Had she just come from the airport?_

Reluctantly, Jaime went over to her, holding out a hand for her bag. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” she replied, surrendering the bag.

“What are you doing here?” He set the bag down by the couch and then turned to face her again.

She shrugged almost defensively. “I did try to call. Let you know I was coming.”

“You did,” Jaime repeated, looking at her.

Tyrion glanced between the two of them suspiciously, as if he were trying to piece out a puzzle. Noticing the tension that had suddenly manifested in the air, he frowned. “Is everything all right, Brienne? Are you OK?”

Brienne turned to Tyrion, a nervous smile on her lips. “Yeah. Fine. I’m sorry I didn’t call from the airport. I should have called. Checked to see if this was a good time.” She looked around the room, her eyes settling on her bag. “You know what? I should go.” She started walking towards the couch. “Maybe we can get together tomorrow, if you have time.”

“No!” Jaime cried, stepping in front of her to halt her forward progress. “Don’t go.” He looked desperately at Tyrion, his eyes pleading with his brother to do something.

“No, no,” Tyrion echoed, frowning at Jaime in puzzlement. The brothers exchanged looks, before Tyrion nodded and walked over to Brienne.

“You should stay, Brienne. Stay. Please. Keep Jaime company tonight. We’re … uh, meant to be celebrating; but I just got a call, right before you came. And I’m afraid I have to leave … unexpectedly. So you should stay. Talk to Jaime.” He looked back at Jaime. “I don’t exactly know when I’ll get back, brother. You know how these things go. Um … don’t wait up or anything.”

The doorbell rang, startling them all.

“Ah!” Tyrion cried. “That’s my ride!” He grabbed Brienne’s hand. “I’m sorry to have to miss you tonight. Maybe we can catch up tomorrow, if you’re still in town.”

“Uh… yes. I guess…” Brienne stuttered.

“It’s so good to see you, Brienne,” Tyrion said earnestly. “So good.”

The doorbell rang again; and Tyrion scuttled out to answer it.

“Channarong, my old friend!” they heard Tyrion exclaim, once the door was opened. “You are right on time.”

“I have the food, sir.”

“Splendid. Splendid. Let’s take it to go, shall we?”

“But, sir, I’m supposed to…”

“Oh, Channarong, you joker you. You can drop that sir stuff. If we leave now, we will…”

The door closed behind them, shutting out their conversation; and Brienne let out a breath into the now quiet room.

Jaime looked down at his pants. “Uh… I need to, er ... clean myself up. Um, if you maybe want to…” He gestured to the kitchen; and Brienne nodded, trailing after him quietly.

Once in the kitchen, Jaime turned to the sink, wetting a dish towel and running it over the whiskey stain.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, breaking the silence. “I tried to call you last night. To see if it would be OK to stop by.”

“I know.” Jaime looked up at her, the dish towel in his hand. “I meant to call you back. I was in meetings all day.”

“Meetings?”

“Yeah. I was going to tell you; but I wanted to get everything hammered out first.”

Brienne cocked her head in confusion. “Tyrion said you were celebrating? What ...”

“We were,” Jaime admitted, cutting her off. “Are.” He cleared his throat. “Tyrion and I are starting a production company. We just signed the papers today.”

“What?” Brienne’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widening in surprise.

“We’ve been planning it for months.” He threw the dish towel back into the sink. “It all finally came together today.”

“A production company?” Brienne squeaked, as if she didn’t fully believe it. “Your own production company?”

“Yeah, I got to thinking about what you said all those months ago,” Jaime replied. “That if there weren’t parts for me anymore, I should pay someone to write them. So I looked into what it would take.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I asked Tyrion for some financial advice, and he seemed pretty gung-ho about the prospect. So we made a few calls, procured a few investors, and here we are.”

“Here you are,” Brienne repeated, still shocked.

“Here we are.”

“Wow. I mean, that’s … Jesus, Jaime, that terrific.” Brienne smiled -- a real smile, looking at Jaime proudly, her awkwardness suddenly gone. “So I take it we’re going to get some more guns and girls and guts?”

“No.” Jaime shook his head. “Those days are done.” He shrugged. “I figure it might be time to tell some different stories.”

“Oh. That’s good,” Brienne nodded at him, dumbly. She shook her head and let out a pleased huff. “Actually, that’s great, Jaime. I think that’s great news.”

“Well, if I remember correctly someone did advise me to get off my fucking ass and just use my fucking fortune to produce my own fucking movies.”

“Smart of them -- although I don’t think they said ‘fucking' quite so much.”

“Hmm… maybe not,” Jaime relented, the left corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. “It was implied though.”

Brienne smiled at him fondly, her eyes soft. “Honestly, it’s about time you got back out there, Lannister. You can’t keep all those devoted fans waiting forever. Can’t waste all of your talent.”

He nodded, looking at her seriously. “Why are you here?”

Instantly, Brienne’s smile dropped, replaced by her former worry. “What?”

“I mean, you must have just wrapped. You can’t be packed and done with Winterfell already. Why are you here?” Jaime frowned at her. “Aren’t there cast parties to go to? Post-season commentary to shoot? ADR to record?”

Brienne blushed and cleared her throat. “I did try to call. Warn you that I was coming.”

“Why are you here, Brienne?”

He was looking at her strangely; and all of a sudden, her thin bout of courage fizzled away, and the aching doubt set back in.

“I can go,” she said defensively, gesturing to the door.

Jaime held up his hand. “I don’t want you to go,” he said quietly. “I want to know why you are here.”

“Um … I thought we should talk.”

“Talk,” Jaime sighed, his shoulders sagging, suddenly feeling all of the exhaustion of the day -- of the previous week.

“Yeah,” Brienne murmured, her eyes skittering around the kitchen. She nodded to the barstools lining the kitchen island. “Is it OK if I sit?”

Jaime shrugged, gesturing to the island with his prosthesis; however he didn’t join her -- leaning back against the kitchen counter instead.

Brienne’s movements were awkward, as she pulled out a barstool and lowered herself down onto it. “Jaime, I came here because…”

“Shit.” He cut her off, walking to the refrigerator and opening it. “I need a drink. One that I’m not wearing.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “You want a beer?”

“Um … sure,” she said, biting her lip.

Jaime grabbed two bottles and set them on the counter. He reached into a drawer for a bottle opener and deftly popped off the caps, handing a beer to Brienne.

“You’re getting good with your prosthesis,” she remarked.

“Yeah,” Jaime said, an edge to his voice. “Today bottle openers, tomorrow salad tongs. I mean, it’s only a matter of time before I’ve managed world domination.”

“Take the compliment, Jaime.”

“Thank you,” he said begrudgingly.

Brienne took a long swig from her beer, her fingers nervously playing with the curling label, as the room fell into awkward silence.

Ready to jump out of his fucking skin, Jaime took a gulp from his own bottle, and then another for good measure. And finally, when the silence became too oppressive, he spoke. “Just say what you came to say, Brienne.”

She looked up at him startled, her cheeks coloring. “OK.” She took a deep breath. “Varys came to see me yesterday.”

Jaime choked on his beer. “What?”

“Varys. You know -- your agent.”

“Yes, I know he’s my agent, Brienne. Jesus!”

Brienne’s chin went up defensively. “Well, he came to see me yesterday to tell me about Cersei.”

Jaime stared at her as if she had grown two heads. “All right.”

“Did you know he was coming?”

Jaime shrugged. “He said he was going to contact you -- go over the game plan. I figured he’d call, though. I didn’t think he’d fly all the way out to Winterfell. He’s not really a fan of the cold. But then, who is?”

“Well, he did. Came to my trailer to tell me the plan.”

“And?” Jaime couldn’t keep the impatience out of his tone.

_What the hell was this all about? Wasn’t she here to call things off? Tell him that it just wasn’t working? That they couldn’t go back to just being friends because he had blown that all to hells with his stupid kiss? That it was better if they just stayed away from each other for a while? Why was she yammering on about fucking Varys?_

“He told me about the contract.”

“The contract?” Jaime repeated.

“Back on _Westerosi_.” Brienne’s face was beet red now, and she was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What are you talking about?”

“Hells, Jaime,” Brienne said, impatient with his reaction. “The contract. My contract. Back on _Westerosi_.”

Something in Jaime’s eyes flickered in recognition, before he looked away, his gaze coming to rest on the burners of the stove.

Brienne set her shoulders and pressed on. “Varys told me that Baelish was all set to let me go -- bring someone else in as your love interest and that you wouldn’t agree to it. That you held off on signing your own contract until they offered me mine -- at the salary increase I was asking for.”

She tried to meet his eyes; but he wouldn’t look at her. He just grabbed his beer bottle and took a swig.

“He told me that you stood up for me. Insisted that they hire me back. Told them you wouldn’t come back to the show, without me.” Her words were running together in a manic rush now, stumbling on top of each other in her hurry to get them out -- to acknowledge them -- to finally speak them into existence in this stupid, way-too-fancy kitchen.

Jaime froze, the bottle of beer halfway to his mouth. “Varys had no right to tell you that,” he said finally. “That wasn’t his to tell.”

“Are you kidding me?” Brienne gaped at him incredulously. “I’m glad he did. I’m glad he told me. Glad someone finally told me. I can’t believe that you never said anything.”

He didn’t look at her, still leaning against the counter, his body stiff, like he was one word away from bolting.

Suddenly, Brienne pushed back her stool, standing up to come around the island to face him.

“I can’t believe that I didn’t know. That I left that show, without knowing. That I …” She brought a hand up to rub roughly over her face, her expression stricken. “Gods! That I sat in that room…” She pointed to the living room. “In that room over there in your freaking house and accused you of not sticking up for me -- of not caring enough to say something about the pay disparity. And all this time … Jesus, Jaime! Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaime looked down at his beer. After a long moment, he set it down on the countertop and shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal. You were a good actor. You deserved to stay. You deserved a good contract -- to be paid what you were worth.”

“Wasn’t a big deal?” Brienne sputtered. “Jaime, you refused to sign your contract unless mine was renewed. You took a major risk, goddamn it.”

He shook his head, looking uncomfortable.

“Jaime…” Brienne began; but he broke in before she could say anything else.

“You’re making this more than it was. It wasn’t that much of a risk. I knew they wanted to keep me. And really, the whole thing was for me as much as it was for you. You made me a better actor. Reminded me why I wanted to get into this business in the first place.”

“Jesus!” Brienne cried, stepping back to pace around the back of the island, her expression incredulous. “That’s what Varys said too. And that’s what I don’t understand. You thought I was a good actor? Back then? You wanted to act with me? Thought I was worth fighting for? Back when we worked together?”

Jaime stood up from where he was leaning. “Of course I did. You were the best actor on the goddamn show, hands down.”

“But, if that were true, why did you … ?” She shook her head, her face pained. “Gods, why were you so awful to me then? Why did you tell anyone who would listen how much you didn’t want to work with me? Why did you make me think you hated me?”

Jaime slumped back against the counter and grabbed his beer again. He took a long pull. “Shit. I’ve devoted enough therapy sessions to that damn question. I wish I had a good answer for you.”

“I’ll settle for just an answer,” Brienne shot back, still frantically pacing. “Good or not. Just an answer.”

“All right, then.”

Jaime reached his hand up to his neck, scratching distractedly. “Part of it was jealousy, I think-- at least, in the beginning. Acting came so effortlessly to you. You were so good.” He shook his head. “Are so good. But then I was the one who got all the attention on the damn show because of who I was and what I looked like. And I felt guilty and insecure about that. Convinced that people were going to see me for what I was -- a pretty face and nothing else. And so I tried to convince myself that you weren’t all that good. That you were just this upstart, annoying kid who was always looking down on me -- calling me out, as if I were the emperor with no clothes on.”

Brienne frowned.

“And you made me feel things -- in our scenes together,” Jaime continued, his voice almost angry. “Which was good, of course. It’s acting for fuck’s sake. But it also made me feel exposed and weak, and gods knows, I’m not supposed to be weak. That little fact has been beaten into me since birth. And so I convinced myself that I didn’t like you. Because it was easier -- easier than trying to figure out what I really felt about you and about us and working together.” He let out a resigned sigh.

“And, by that time, you expected me to be an asshole anyway, so it was easier to just go with it. And then when I started thinking that maybe you weren’t that bad, that maybe your hostility was just a response to my behavior, that maybe having someone like you actually like and respect someone like me would be the best fucking thing in the whole world, it was too late. You already hated me, so it just seemed easier just to stay the course. You already thought the worst of me. Why not just live up to that?” He met her eyes. “I’m pretty good at living up to people’s expectations of me, just ask my father.”

“It’s no excuse, Brienne, but I wasn’t a very good person back then. Growing up, I had been given everything I ever wanted and then had been told over and over again how very undeserving I was. I grew up thinking I had to destroy in order to avoid being destroyed. And then, of course, there was Cersei...”

“Another thing I never understood,” Brienne said tiredly. “I didn’t do a damn thing to Cersei. Never. Not one damn thing. And yet she hated me so much.”

Jaime laughed, a short, stuttering thing. “You never did a damn thing to Cersei? Brienne, you were a threat to her in every way possible.”

“Oh please,” Brienne gritted out angrily. “I was anything but a threat to Cersei bloody Baratheon. She was the one with the movie star looks and the family money and all the connections and people falling all over her.”

“But you had more talent -- have more talent -- in your little finger than Cersei will ever have.” Jaime shook his head emphatically. “It absolutely killed her that they paired me with you. Say what you will about Cersei, but she can recognize a threat from 100 yards away. And your talent was a definite threat to her. So she doubled down on the manipulation.” He gestured to his chest. “She kept telling me that I deserved more -- better storylines where I was the star, not the lesser half of a couple. And, stupid kid that I was, I ate it up -- at least, in the beginning. It was the first time that someone had told me that I was good, that I was worthy. Hells, all my father ever did was tell me how much of a failure I was. I had to fight tooth and nail to even get into the business; and the only reason Tywin didn’t put up much of a fight was because he thought I was going to fail spectacularly. And then…” He broke off, his expression contrite. “And then, Cersei came around telling me how amazing I was. How above everyone I was. How I deserved more. And it was addicting. And it made me feel better about the fact that I wasn’t as good -- would never be as good of an actor as you were.”

“Jaime, would you stop that? That’s not …”

“No, it’s true, Brienne,” he cut her off. “Have you watched yourself? Watched your work? Did you ever wonder why you seem to have chemistry with every actor you act with -- man, woman, horse, fence post?” He gave a faint smile.

Brienne grimaced. “Not every actor.”

“Every actor,” Jaime said firmly. “You come alive on film, Brienne. As much as it pains me to admit it, you and fucking Stark light up every scene you are in together. And he’s good, I’ll give him that. But he’s not the same caliber as you. Watch him in his solo scenes or his scenes with other actors. You make him great. Just like you did to me. Which is why insisting that they re-up your contract and pay you what you were worth was no great sacrifice on my part.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” she said miserably.

“What good would that have done?”

“It would have changed the way I thought of you.”

“You thought of me as a selfish, narcissistic asshole, which, I just admitted, I was.”

“Jaime.” Brienne came to a stop in the front of the island, her eyes pleading with him.

“Brienne, don’t try to rewrite this. Don’t make me more honorable than I was. It wasn’t a heroic act. It was a selfish one. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t deserve your gratitude.”

“I don’t owe you anything? Are you kidding me, Jaime Lannister? You talk about me not seeing things. Are you blind? Do you not realize how big of a deal this is? If I had been let go, I …”

“You would have found another project. You’re far too talented to have not found something.”

“But still, I …”

Jaime held up his good hand. “It wasn’t a sacrifice. Really, I didn’t even think twice about it.”

Brienne blinked at him, trying to comprehend this. Trying to comprehend the fact that he had done such a good thing and refused to even acknowledge it -- refused to accept any praise or gratitude for it. Trying to reconcile this man standing in front of her with the man she knew from before -- or thought she knew from before.

She chanced a glance at Jaime, at the wary expression on his face, the way his hand nervously played with the pocket of his track pants.

_He wanted her to believe that this was no big deal._

_But it was a big deal._

_It was._

_Suddenly, she knew with heavy certainty what she needed to do._

“Thank you,” Brienne said finally, her voice cracking. “Thank you, Jaime.”

“Like I said,” he waved her off, “it was nothing.”

She took a step towards him, her eyes steady. “It was something,” she said carefully.

One more step forward.

“And if I would have known …”

“What, we would have become friends?” Jaime laughed weakly, his eyes jumping to the side nervously. “I can’t see that ever happening back then.”

“Maybe not,” Brienne agreed. “But it would have changed things. Would have changed the way I thought of you.”

“Then it was better that you didn’t know.”

“Jaime, you don’t…”

“No,” he broke in, holding up his good hand to halt her forward progression. “You said it yourself. I was pretty awful back then, even if my intentions weren’t always horrible. You were smart to distance yourself from me.”

“I don’t think …”

“But …” he cut her off. He paused, seemingly weighing his words. “But, it’s different now. It is. It’s taken years, Brienne, and some difficult life lessons.” Jaime smiled faintly, holding up his prosthetic in an attempt at a weak joke. “And hours and hours of therapy; but I’m not that person anymore. Really. I promise you, I’m not. I’m not that man anymore.”

“I know you’re not.” Brienne wiped her palm on her leggings, forcing herself not to move back when all she wanted to do was turn and run. “I know you’re not, Jaime.”

He looked at her, his expression completely open. “Christ, Brienne, you have to know -- I am so very sorry for the way I treated you. And I’d sooner lose my other hand than to hurt you like that again.”

“I know.” Brienne nodded slowly. “I’m sorry too.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m still sorry. For not knowing. For not thanking you. For thinking that you would ...” She swallowed and met his eyes.

For one tiny heartbeat, the world seemed to stop; and Brienne was suddenly struck with the overwhelming urge to cry, to lay her head on Jaime’s chest and just sob. To cry and to cry and to cry and not to stop until every awful thought, every horrible feeling that she had carried around with her for all of those years had spilled out -- until she was empty and hollow and clean.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Jaime was looking at her worriedly.

_It was now or never._

Before she could lose her nerve, Brienne fumbled in the pocket of her sweatshirt, pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper and pushing it into his hands. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Jaime looked suspiciously at the crumpled paper.

“I… uh did some homework.” Her voice was strained, cracking a bit in her anxiousness. “On the plane. Wrote down a few things.”

Jaime gazed at her puzzled. “Why did you do homework?” He raised his eyebrows, giving her a half smile. “You do know that’s my thing, Tarth. No fair stealing.”

“Sorry,” she tried to smile at his joke, but her mouth wasn’t working right. She gestured to his hand. “You can read it. It would be good to get another perspective on it.”

Jaime nodded, baffled. Bracing the paper on his chest with his prosthesis, he unfolded it.

He glanced down for a long moment, reading the words.”

“There’s…” He looked up at her, blinking, and then back down again at the paper. “There’s only one thing written on here. And then a whole lot of expletives.”

Brienne nodded, her cheeks coloring. “Had trouble finding the right words,” she murmured sheepishly.

Jaime looked back down at the words scrawled in Brienne’s efficient handwriting: _**“I think I’m falling for Jaime Lannister. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”**_

He looked back up. “Is this …? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I think I am. I don’t know, I think I am.” She bit her lip nervously. “Honestly, I’m having a difficult time separating all these feelings I’m feeling. All of them seem to be overwhelmed by the sheer terror of actually feeling them.”

“Brienne, you don’t …”

“No, no,” she cut him off. “To be perfectly honest, I think I’ve been a goner ever since you took care of me after the accident -- when you stayed with me in my trailer, slept on that stupid couch, made me that awful soup. Only I didn’t want to even think about it because I was scared of actually naming it. Of what it said about me to be falling for someone who…”

“Treated you like shit?” he broke in resignedly. “Was a total ass?”

She sighed, nodding her head. “That’s why I ran away the first time. Because I wanted … I wanted this … wanted you.” She blushed, pale red blotches breaking out on her cheeks; and Jaime had to bite the inside of his cheek to let her finish. “And it scared me that I wanted it so badly. So I ran. But then Varys told me what you did.” She broke off, looking down at her shoes. “And he … uh might have brought my attention to how I was actually feeling.”

She raised her eyes, swallowing nervously. “And then Robb basically called me on the carpet for shutting people out -- not taking chances -- on myself and …”

“Wait, Stark called you out?” Jaime grimaced.

“Yeah -- told me I was a pro at sabotaging myself -- of counting myself out before I could get hurt. Told me that, if I really liked you, I had to take the chance, because I owed it to myself ...”

“Stark, said that?” Jaime interrupted. He gestured to his shoulder. “Stark? Little guy? Wears a stupid beanie? Smug attitude? That Robb Stark?”

“Stop.” Brienne rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Anyway,” she continued. “It’s just … well, I just think.” She shook her head furiously, frustrated when the words wouldn’t come.

_What could she say to convey this? How could she possibly tell him what she was feeling when she didn’t really understand it herself?_

“Look, we don’t have to decide anything right now. It’s probably better if we take some time to really think about all of this. What it all means. But I just wanted to come here tonight and tell you… to say …” She looked at him, her blue eyes so incredibly sincere. “Just thank you, Jaime,” she said finally. “Thank you for fighting for me.”

Jaime coughed out a rough sound, letting the paper fall to the kitchen floor. He gazed down at it, lying there on the polished hardwood of his flat, crumpled and dog eared and glorious.

Gods, he was aching -- literally aching to touch her -- every nerve in his body crying out in protest. But he knew he shouldn’t -- shouldn’t spook her and send her running. So, instead, he lifted his head to meet her eyes. “Thank _you,_ Brienne. Thank you for fighting for _me._ ”

He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but his chin wobbled, the left side of his mouth trembling with effort.

Brienne gave him a stricken grimace in return.

“Just so I don’t get this wrong,” he continued. “Are you saying that you … um, maybe want to try this thing?”

Her blush deepened. “If you still want to … Want me, I guess.”

Jaime’s eyes suddenly burned, an uncomfortable stinging in the back of his throat. “Shit, Brienne...”

“I mean, it’s a lot of work,” she said, her voice serious. “Being with me and everything. You’ve probably … um, noticed … that.”

Jaime gave a wet laugh, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. “It’s a lot of work being with me and everything too.”

Brienne smiled a shy smile, then looked back down at her sneakers.

After way too many minutes of aching silence, Jaime finally broke the tension. “Gods, what now?” He looked at her, his expression sheepish.

Brienne sucked her lower lip into her mouth with her teeth and shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Fuck, this is terrifying," Jaime laughed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. 

“I know. That’s what I was trying to convey with my overly ambitious use of expletives.” She gestured down at the crumpled paper.

“Christ, after all those love scenes, you’d think we’d know what to do.”

“There’s a bit more at stake than blowing a take here, though, isn’t there?”

“True,” Jaime said. He inhaled, before pushing himself up from the counter and walking over to her.

He came to rest in front of her, bringing his good hand up to cup her cheek. “A lot more at stake.” He sucked in a breath. “I guess we’re just going to have power through it, though.”

“Are we crazy for trying this?”

“Yes,” Jaime nodded. “Definitely crazy. But something tells me that, if anything will be worth the risk, it’s this.”

Brienne glanced at him, the blue of her eyes catching in the kitchen lights. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Well, I am due,” Jaime quipped. “I’ve been wrong so damn often.”

He leaned towards her, bringing his forehead to rest on hers.

“Should I kiss you now?”

Brienne colored; but she licked her lower lip and gave him a tiny nod.

“You won’t run away?”

She shook her head.

“Because if you do, it might just crush me for good this time.”

The splash of red engulfing her neck and throat burned a deeper scarlet. “I won’t,” she croaked solemnly, reaching up to lightly touch his shoulder. “You can kiss me, Jaime.”

So he did.

**~~~~~~~**

Brienne didn’t quite know how she had ended up in Jaime’s bedroom. Well, she knew, of course, she knew -- but it had all gone by in a blur.

At first they had been kissing in his kitchen, Brienne’s back pressed up against the cold granite of Jaime’s kitchen island, their bodies crashing together in a sloppy mix of limbs and lips and muttered curses and sweet words.

And then, before Brienne could catch her breath, she suddenly found herself in his sitting room, tangled up with him on the couch, Jaime’s body pressing into hers, his mouth hot and demanding and so, so sweet. His hands everywhere.

And then, at some point in their frantic fumblings, Brienne had reached up to take off Jaime’s prosthetic, not even stopping to think it through.

And then, everything had suddenly shifted.

Jaime had frozen at her actions, staring at her, his green eyes boring into her with intensity.

Embarrassed but surprisingly not afraid, Brienne had just shrugged sheepishly.

“I’d rather feel your skin. Feel you,” she had explained, ignoring his heated gaze and the hot blush that had filled her face.

Looking into his eyes, Brienne brought her fingers up to work the straps of the device, pulling off the plastic limb and carefully setting it down on the side of the couch -- reaching up again to roll the fabric covering that protected Jaime’s stump down his arm, slowly revealing his skin, soothing it with her fingertips.

When it was off, she lay back down on the couch, waiting for Jaime to resume their previous activities.

However, he didn’t move.

“Jaime?” she questioned, the sudden shot of bravery that had fueled her boldness suddenly gone.

At the sound of his name, Jaime sat up -- extricating himself from her and standing up, his body looming over her.

He looked at her and held out his hand.

Barely aware of what she was doing, Brienne let him pull her up. Let him lead her into the bedroom. Let him lead her to his bed.

And now she was here -- in Jaime Lannister’s freaking bedroom -- on Jaime Lannister’s freaking bed -- with Jaime Lannister’s tongue in her mouth -- and Jaime Lannister’s hand in her shirt.

_It was crazy. Totally and completely crazy. Totally and completely unlike her. And Brienne felt giddy with the beauty of it._

Jaime’s tongue hit a particularly sensitive spot on her neck, and Brienne gasped, moving her own hands down his body, smoothing over the muscle and bone of his back --her palms coming to rest against his ass, pushing him up and into her.

“Fuck,” Jaime mumbled, sitting up and pulling Brienne with him.

In one quick move, he had ripped his shirt off, throwing it on the side of the bed. He then reached for Brienne’s sweatshirt, pulling it over her head, leaving her in her nothing but a dark blue sports bra and leggings.

“Christ, Brienne…” Jaime muttered, sounding almost angry, as his left hand fumbled with the waistband of her pants, pushing them down to her ankles before sitting back up to wiggle out of own his sweats.

Brienne tried to help him, but in their frantic groping, she only managed to brush up against his erection.

At the feel of it -- at the feel of him, she froze, breathing hard, her eyes wide.

Jaime swore softly under his breath, and then he was on her. Kissing her, his mouth hot and slippery, as they crashed together in a frantic rush to get closer, closer.

With a groan, Jaime fisted the hem of her sports bra in his good hand, wrenching it up -- past her neck, straining it over her face, where it caught on her nose, the fabric pulling at her mouth.

“Off. Off,” Jaime muttered, frustrated.

And Brienne hardly had time to think, before his mouth was on her, the stupid bra still tangled in her hair, her arms still dangling in the air, as if she were a criminal surrendering.

“Jaime,” she grunted. “Jai … uh,”

His mouth closed around her, the flat of his tongue running over her hardened nipple.

“Shit,” she swore.

_Hells, maybe she didn’t need her arms, after all._

But her gasped obscenity was enough for Jaime to notice her distress. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, trying to get ahold of himself enough to pry the stupid bra off of her head and toss it on the side of his bed with the rest of their clothes.

Finally freed, Brienne’s arms fell down to her sides, and Jaime, slowed, turning his body to look at her -- at her white, freckled skin, spattered and sprayed with bruises from stunt work.

Almost reverently, he reached a hand to cup her face, running his thumb over her lower lip, before letting his fingers slide down her throat and onto her chest. “Shit,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

Brienne stilled, watching him silently.

He looked wrecked -- disoriented -- flushed -- so unlike the Jaime she knew -- well, the Jaime she thought she knew.

Jaime’s eyes moved from her breasts back to her face. “I never thought …” he broke off, his voice shaking slightly. “I never imagined. Shit. This is surreal.”

She nodded. “It is.”

He let his hand fall down her stomach to rest on the waistband of her sensible, black underwear. “Is this too fast?”

Brienne licked her lips, seriously contemplating his question for a moment. “It’s been fifteen years,” she finally said.

“I know,” Jaime said quietly. “I know that logically. But… gods I feel like everything’s just started. I feel like I’m a fucking kid here. Like I’ve never done this before.”

“You haven’t.” She gestured to the space between them. “You haven’t done this before. I haven’t either.”

He nodded at her solemnly. “First time.”

“First time,” she agreed.

“Finally,” he breathed. “Fucking finally.”

He moved; and Brienne thought he was going to pull her down to the bed, continue what he started. But instead Jaime’s arms wound around her torso, his head coming to rest against her stomach, as if he were some penitent kneeling before her.

Suddenly overcome by emotion, Brienne brought her own arms around him, holding him close, skin against skin, one of her hands coming up to stroke through his hair, as he breathed into her -- breathed into the soft curve of her belly, her navel, her hip -- breathed into her freckled skin, warm and slick and alive.

They stayed like that, half-naked, clinging together for a long moment, before Jaime started kissing his way up her sternum, his good hand falling back to the band of her underwear, his fingers teasing the elastic.

“You’re sure?” he murmured, into her chest, his voice catching on the tiny hairs of her body, causing them to stand on end in recognition.

“Completely,” she whispered.

He glanced up at her through his eyelashes; and, before she was even aware of what she was doing, Brienne had Jaime’s face cradled in her hands, pulling back to look at him -- at his green eyes, dark, heavy- lidded -- at his parted mouth --the golden sprawl of hair shaggily falling across his forehead. At his chest rising and falling, the muscles of his shoulders and neck tensed.

Caught up in her grip, Jaime’s left hand fumbled up to grasp her hip, his fingers finding the soft, fleshy part surrounding her bone and tightening possessively, as if he were anchoring himself so he didn’t drift away. So they both didn’t drift away.

Brienne swallowed, a flush of something warm and immense overwhelming her.

This was not a love story.

This … whatever the fuck they’d been doing for the past fifteen years.

All the fighting and ignoring and repenting and forgiving.

All the hurting.

All the wounding.

She released his face, running her left hand down his shoulder, trailing her fingers lightly to his empty wrist, the pads of her fingertips catching on the ropes of scar tissue.

Christ, so much wounding.

There was nothing at all romantic about this mess -- the two of them here, on this bed -- bared and exposed -- battered and vulnerable. Both so terrified and exhilarated that the very cells of their skin were vibrating with the pulsing reality of it.

“No,” Brienne thought, bringing Jaime’s maimed arm up to hold it over her chest, to press it down against her heart -- a steady weight. “This was definitely not a love story.”

Except that it was.

Fuck it all.

It was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, gang. Have you seen the gorgeous COACC artwork that Natty had commissioned? If not, check it out here: https://natty-danai.tumblr.com/post/634499767264837632/chemistry-of-a-car-crash-by-hildegardtheb-i-fell 
> 
> and here: https://natty-danai.tumblr.com/post/634581623896145920/westerosis-iconic-couple-duncxroman-this-is 
> 
> Fawn, the artist, is insanely talented. And I am so damn grateful to both Fawn and to Natty for this absolutely beautiful gift of art and inspiration. 
> 
> And speaking of art and inspiration, this chapter’s song is by the Norwegian singer songwriter Ane Brun. Fun fact -- this song has made it onto all of my running playlists for 2020. There’s just something about it that speaks to me. And, I’d be completely remiss if I didn’t also mention that the “sexy times” scene at the end of this chapter was inspired by the song “Woman” by Mumford and Sons. 
> 
> What a crazy two weeks it has been, my friends! I am still processing everything -- cautiously optimistic about something for the first time in a very long time. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your amazing support and encouragement. I continue to be blown away by the reaction to this fic. Your comments and kudos and bookmarks and subscriptions are so appreciated. Seriously, they absolutely make my day.
> 
> Finally, I’ve held out on giving a final chapter count, because I am always wrong in my estimations (this one turned out to be only five chapters more than I originally anticipated, lol). However, I can now safely say that there is one more chapter left of this beast. 
> 
> Thanks for everything, my friends. Sending love your way! 💖


	23. No Hard Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings … and beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because I’m super extra and because I am having a really difficult time letting this fic go, this last chapter has three songs -- three songs that are actually a pretty fitting roadmap to the whole damn story. 
> 
> The young Jaime/Brienne scene and the title for the final “Westerosi” episode were influenced by The Wailin’ Jennys’ “Begin”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vocns3YPR8
> 
> The second scene of this chapter takes its title and its tone from Sade’s “Soldier of Love”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IR5_rTCi-Bo
> 
> And the present day Jaime/Brienne scene and the last Dunc/Roman scene owe everything to The Avett Brothers’ “No Hard Feelings”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFGs7HP15d4 (the video has some jumps and flashing, so if you’re sensitive to that, maybe just listen without watching). 
> 
> Honestly, gang, this -- this, right here -- is the vibe. What I’ve been trying to get to this whole time. Hopefully, I was able to pull it off. 
> 
> FYI, we’re jumping two years into the future for the present action of this chapter, so the time markers are different (i.e. thirteen years ago means something different in this chapter than it did last chapter). 
> 
> Also this chapter contains some descriptions of violence, so mind how you go

**“No Hard Feelings”**

**The Avett Brothers**

**“When I lay down my fears**  
**My hopes and my doubts**  
**The rings on my fingers**  
**And the keys to my house**  
**With no hard feelings**

**Under the curving sky**  
**I’m finally learning why**  
**It matters for me and you**  
**To say it and mean it too**  
**For life and its loveliness**  
**And all of its ugliness**

**Good as it's been to me**  
**I have no enemies**  
**I have no enemies**  
**I have no enemies**

**I have no enemies"**

**~~~~~~**

**Thirteen Years Ago:**

Jaime checked his reflection in the mirror for the millionth time.

_Fuck. What was he doing?_

This was stupid. Totally and completely stupid.

Really, the two of them had already said their goodbyes on the sound stage.

Well, “said” was a bit of an over exaggeration. Jaime had smiled at Brienne over the half-drunk crowd of cast and crew milling about after the final shot, holding up his plastic tumbler of celebratory champagne in a mock toast to her; and Brienne, in her most Briennish sort of way, had given him a grimace and a begrudging nod.

Hardly a goodbye at all.

Certainly not a fitting end to the five years of partnership that they had just completed. Five years of night shoots and emotionally draining scenes -- of early calls and endless takes -- of tears and anger and exhaustion and frustration.

_There had to be more to it, right?_

More than just a stupid smile and a nod in a fucking crowded room, right?

_Right._

He should do it.

Just do it.

Go say a proper goodbye to Brienne. Thank her for … well, shit -- for the past five years.

_It was the least he could do, right?_

After all, they were no longer immature kids hellbent on annoying each other. They were adults now. Well, at least Jaime was. And Brienne was like 19 going on 57. Hells, her very soul was middle-aged -- always had been. Surely it was time to let all the bad feelings go -- to bury the hatchet once and for all. End things on a good note. Like...well, not exactly friends.

Colleagues, maybe?

_No, that was dumb. They didn’t have adjoining cubicles in some office, for fuck’s sake._

Acquaintances?

_No, that wasn’t the right word for someone he made out with and pretty much felt up on a semi-regular basis._

Jaime colored, just thinking of it.

Rivals?

_No. Not really. At least, not anymore. Not after… well, not after everything that had happened this past year. Not after he had decided to stay on another year. Stay at Westerosi another year. Stay here, with her._

Whatever they were, Jaime was starting to get the sinking suspicion that maybe he was going to miss her -- was going to miss the big, irritating, overly-serious kid who’d sooner cuss him out than look at him.

_He was._

He definitely was.

_Maybe?_

Well, maybe “miss” was going a little far. He was certainly going to feel something. Was feeling something right now, actually ... but, then again, maybe that was just nerves.

_Shit, it was just a goodbye._

_Why was he making a big deal out of nothing?_

Jaime adjusted the sleeves of his black sweater and ran an anxious hand through his hair.

It still seemed surreal. That it was all over.

His first acting job was over.

No more _Westerosi._ No more Roman Webber -- screwed-up, entitled, fuck-up with a heart of gold, Roman Webber.

In a few minutes, Jaime would walk out of this building for the very last time -- and the _Westerosi_ chapter of his life would be over.

Not that he was worried about the future or anything.

No, Jaime had already lined up his next job -- a supporting role in a major studio movie. He was playing the boyfriend of a big-name movie star. Not too many lines but a ton of screen time.

 _“A little eye-candy for the ladies,”_ the director had drawled, eyeing a shirtless Jaime appraisingly.

But then, Jaime didn’t mind being objectified. Everyone knew that his face was his golden ticket in this business. Might as well embrace it. Besides, if he had anything to say about it, this movie was only the beginning.

One of these days, Jaime was going to be the big name on the marquee, and some other bright-eyed newbie would be playing his love interest.

No, Jaime wasn’t worried about leaving _Westerosi._

It was time to move on.

Time to say a proper goodbye and ride off into the sunset.

Not look back.

_But that was the weird part, wasn’t it?_

Shit, it was crazy to think about.

After five years of acting with someone. Kissing someone. Going through hell with someone. It was weird to think that this might be the last time he would ever see her.

Ever see Brienne.

Jaime shook his head, feeling a strange tightness in the back of his throat -- a tightness that had been lingering there from the moment the AD had called _‘cut’_ on the last scene of the day.

Gods, he was totally overthinking this.

_Just go knock on her door and say goodbye, you idiot. That’s all you have to fucking do. Just a quick goodbye. "Thanks for the memories. See you on the flip side, Tarth."_

_See you on the flip side? Jesus! What was he -- fucking eighty?_

Jaime shook his head in disgust, grabbed his jacket, and ventured out of his dressing room, turning left down the dark hallway, past the private executive offices, past the editing room, towards what was commonly known as the “Girls Wing” of the compound.

And as he passed door after door of empty dressing rooms -- most of the cast having wrapped earlier in the week -- Jaime slowed his pace, half of him desperately hoping that Brienne would be long gone before he got there. Wouldn’t be there to watch him fumble through what was sure to be an awkward and embarrassing goodbye.

The door to Brienne’s dressing room was closed, and Jaime came to a reluctant stop in front of it, his eyes jumping to the sharpied, tattered sign that marked the door -- _**Brienne Tarth: Dunc Duncan.**_

For one hot minute, Jaime thought about taking the sign -- stuffing it into his pocket to keep as a memento -- a remembrance of their partnership.

But she’d probably want that.

Besides, taking her sign was a total creep move.

Jaime frowned, his face heating at the thought of it.

_All right. All right. He just needed to fucking do this._

After a few more moments blankly staring at the sign, Jaime finally lifted his hand and knocked, the noise jarring in the quiet of the deserted building.

There was only silence from the other side of the door.

Maybe she had left already.

_Please let her have left already._

However, before Jaime could breathe a true sigh of relief, the door was suddenly pulled open; and Brienne stood there, her face blotchy and red, her eye make-up smudged beneath those ridiculous disconcerting eyes of hers.

_Had she been crying? Why was she crying? Shit, had someone made her cry?_

Jaime tried to peer around her into the dressing room to see if someone was in there.

_Gods, was it Baelish? That asshole better not be giving Brienne a line of shit -- telling her how much he was going to miss her, how much she meant to the franchise. Not after he had tried to get rid of her last year._

“Jaime,” Brienne said, frowning at him suspiciously.

Startled, Jaime looked up to meet her eyes.

Remembering where he was, he shifted in the doorway, doing his best to school his features into the infamous Jaime Lannister smirk.

Brienne only blinked at him, her face uncertain.

_Why did she look so worried?_

“Don’t worry,” Jaime said, trying to keep his tone light, nonchalant. “I’m not here for a big, sloppy goodbye or anything.”

_Smooth, Jaime. Very smooth._

_And it was a total lie._

_He WAS here for a goodbye. Why the hell else would he be here?_

“Why are you here then?” Brienne shifted her body, blocking the entrance to her dressing room, as if she expected him to suddenly try to charge the door.

“I don’t know,” Jaime shrugged, no longer completely sure of the reason now. “It somehow seemed wrong just to leave without saying anything.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Brienne sighed and glanced behind Jaime into the hallway.

The cocky smirk fell from Jaime’s face, as the sting of her brush-off hit its mark.

He laughed, or tried to anyway -- a fake, hollow sound that reverberated in the empty hallway. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

“So…?” Brienne prompted impatiently.

_Hells, this was a crap idea._

_Why had he thought that this was a good idea -- that she would want him to come say goodbye?_

Of course she wouldn’t want that.

Brienne couldn’t stand him.

She wouldn’t be feeling sentimental that it was ending -- that they were ending.

Hells, she was probably breathing a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to deal with his sorry ass anymore.

_It’s just that … Well, he had thought that maybe -- now that everything was over -- after everything that they had been through that maybe …?_

“Christ, Tarth. We’ve only worked together for the past five years.” He tried to grin; however his mouth wasn’t quite cooperating, and his smile fell flat.

“Yeah, I was there.” Brienne’s voice was tired, unemotional. “Unfortunately.”

Jaime’s cheeks reddened, the expression frozen on his face. “Fine. If that’s how you want it.”

“Fine,” Brienne echoed.

“Well, OK, then,” Jaime replied testily, pushing himself off of the door frame, suddenly inexplicably angry. “I won’t tell you it’s been real or I’ve enjoyed it or I’ve learned so much from you or anything. I mean why lie at this point?”

“Yes, why lie?” Brienne muttered, rolling her eyes.

He gaped at her.

_Shit. Leave it to Tarth to hold a stupid grudge and not let bygones be bygones. Leave it to Brienne fucking Tarth to suck all of the happiness out of the whole goddamn experience._

There was no way he could win with her.

It didn’t matter what he did -- what he said. She would always think of him as an asshole -- not worth the time of day. Even now. Even though this was it. Even though they wouldn’t see each other ever again after today.

“Goodbye, Jaime,” Brienne said, breaking into Jaime’s angry thoughts.

He looked up at her, into her otherworldly blue gaze, the same blue gaze that he had stared into for the past five goddamn years.

“Goodbye, Brienne,” he managed to push out past the stupid lump in his throat. “Have a nice life.”

She didn’t reply to that. Her eyes widened for just a second, before she nodded at him stiffly and quietly shut the door.

_Well, shit._

_That was that then._

_All she wrote._

Jaime let out a sarcastic huff.

No, it was fine.

Better this way.

_Better to have a clean break, right?_

Shaking his head, Jaime turned -- turned away from her closed door -- from the ridiculous, sharpied sign -- from the fucking Girls’ Wing -- and started making his way down the corridor to the main parking lot.

_Time to get the hells out of Dodge._

Stupid, stubborn kid. She couldn’t just let bygones be bygones, could she? No, she had to make sure she got the last word in. Made him feel like shit one last time.

_Well fuck that._

Christ, and here he was thinking that he’d miss this. Thinking that he’d miss her.

What was there to miss? Brienne’s sour attitude? Her judgmental frowns? The way she stared at him in disapproval?

_No he wouldn’t miss that at all. Not at all._

Jaime nodded at the woman manning the front desk in the lobby and made his way to the row of glass doors that led to the gray expanse of parking lot.

It had been pissing rain all day, puddles of water collecting in the pockmarked asphalt and sluicing over the uneven sidewalks.

Shivering, Jaime pulled on his jacket, wrenching the collar up and over his head, before pushing out of the doors and sprinting to his car.

Fumbling his keys in his cold fingers, Jaime turned around one last time to look back at the _Westerosi_ compound -- the gray brick of the building shedding watery rivulets onto the dirty concrete. The fluorescent lights blinking hazily over the entrance.

_No, who was he kidding?_

_He wouldn’t fucking miss this place at all._

Slamming wetly into the front seat, Jaime peeled off his drenched jacket, tossing it in the back of the car and running a hand through his damp hair to get it out of his eyes.

_Time to get out of here -- and for real this time._

No more contract extensions. No more going to the mat for someone who couldn’t care less about him. No more getting caught up in sentimental bullshit and humiliating himself yet again.

It was time for a new beginning.

A beginning free from Baelish and stupid high school and Brienne fucking Tarth.

Exhaling into the cold of the car, Jaime jammed the key into the ignition and carefully pulled out of the parking lot, trying to avoid the worst of the potholes, which, he’d learned from experience, were fucking murder on the suspension of his sports car.

Hells, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the shitty parking lot anymore -- or the cold as hell dressing rooms -- or the craft service lunches which varied between starch covered in goopy fat and fat covered in goopy starch.

The rain made seeing difficult, so Jaime flipped on the windshield wipers and cranked up the heat, turning the knob to defrost, trying to peer through the tiny clear patch, which was slowly expanding on the foggy windshield.

_Naw, he definitely wouldn’t miss this. Not in the least._

He was stupid to think he would.

Turning on his headlights, Jaime pulled out onto the road -- keeping his eyes trained on the hazy gray horizon in front of him.

His car stereo was playing some old tune -- something from his father’s generation. A song of love and loss and regret; but Jaime hardly paid attention. He was having a difficult enough time seeing the road as it was, without being distracted by the singer’s raspy, pathetic pleas.

_Gods, the weather sucked._

But then, it was a fitting end to the whole damn experience, wasn’t it?

Everything miserable and gray and wet.

The headlights from Jaime’s expensive sports car played over the shiny, slick asphalt, blurring his vision.

Maybe he should pull over - wait for the worst of the storm to pass. But Cersei was waiting for him at home. And he was already running late after the whole Brienne fiasco. Best just to push on.

Carefully, he pressed down on the accelerator, gunning it a bit towards the main gate of the compound, squinting at the road ahead, trying to make out the hazy shapes in the distance.

_Goodbye Westerosi._

_Goodbye Roman Webber._

_Goodbye Dunc Duncan and stupid Brienne Tarth._

As he reached the gates, Jaime thought about turning around and looking back one last time. But instead, he just kept driving.

And it wasn’t until he had driven through the compound gates for the final time -- wasn’t until he had bypassed the frontage road and turned onto the on-ramp to the freeway -- wasn’t until he was halfway home -- halfway to Cersei and his new life -- that Jaime finally realized that it wasn’t the rain clouding his vision.

No, it wasn’t the goddamn rain or the foggy windshield or the spray from the passing cars.

It was the stupid tears that seemed to be streaming from his stupid eyes.

Even though Jaime wasn’t sad.

No, he wasn’t sad.

He wasn’t fucking sad at all.

**~~~~~~~**

**Present Day -- Thirteen Years Later**

_**Soldier of Love** _

**An Offhand Production**  
**Director: Missandei Naath**  
**Producers: J. Lannister, T. Lannister**  
**Scene 72, Take 1, A-Mark**

**“Action.”**

_They had taken the woman._

_Hours ago. Taken her gods knows where. And Damon is starting to worry that she isn’t fucking coming back._

_He paces back and forth in the stifling half-light of the room, the skin on his right side painfully pulling as he moves._

_Step. Pain. Step. Pain._

_How long has it been? It’s hard to even know, trapped in this god awful cell with no windows and only the faint light from the hallway bleeding through the bars, barely illuminating the piss-damp straw scattered across the concrete floor._

_They came for her hours ago -- days, maybe -- Damon can’t be sure. Time feels as solid as a fever dream now -- everything slipping and crashing together in a jumble of pain and despair and choking, cold darkness that now marks the passage of his life._

_The truth of the matter is, Damon never planned on being taken alive._

_When the orders from the Keep had first come, Damon had known that it was a suicide mission. It was obvious -- even to the dull-witted, shrinking private who had delivered the message._

_“Message for you, Lieutenant,” he had stuttered before cringing back like a dog who’d been kicked one too many times._

_The order had been terse, impersonal, coldly damning. The 123rd was to conduct a head-on charge of the enemy front line -- be the first wave in a three-pronged attack whose only function was to slow the Qartheen down enough for the Northern forces to set up an artillery barrage, prepare for the next push into No Man’s Land._

_Damon had stared at the order -- wondering who the fuck he had pissed off? What the fuck had he done?_

_It must have been something._

_Maybe it was the interview he had given to the reporter embedded with his battalion during the last impotent advance._

_Maybe it was the fact that Damon had pushed back when his superiors had wanted to burn that Qartheen village and all its inhabitants. At the time, Damon had known he would catch shit for that. However, he had expected a reprimand, a couple of weeks in the brig, not a death sentence._

_But then what the hells could Damon do about it? He couldn’t disobey a direct order. He’d be executed for treason sure as shit. Family legacy, political connections, impeccable combat record be damned._

_So he had done what he had done a hundred times before. He had rallied his troops, spewed out some bullshit about glory and honor -- about how a good soldier could never be defeated -- a good soldier could never die; and then they had all set out to do just that._

_And they had. Every last one of them._

_Except for Damon._

_When the explosion had ripped off his hand, covered the right side of his torso with third-degree burns, he had lain there in the mud, soaked in his own piss and blood, and had thought how very inglorious and dishonorable it all was._

_To die like this._

_To live like this._

_What a fucking lie they sold to soldiers._

_What a fucking lie he had sold to himself._

_And then he had lost consciousness._

_When he had come to, he was in this cell, barely alive and in so much pain his very skin was screaming with the sheer, throbbing ache of it._

_But the woman had been there. Corporal Elinor Costayne from the Fifth Battalion. Another prisoner of war. Captured months ago in a different fucking battle, in a different fucking waste of human life, when she had led the enemy away from a platoon of wounded soldiers, sacrificing herself in their stead._

_And it was thanks to this grim, hulking woman that Damon was still alive._

_She had nursed him, gathered him against her big body, tended to his stinking wound, wiped the piss and shit and vomit off of him, day after day after fucking day. Never complaining -- barely ever talking -- other than telling him to drink, to eat, to close his eyes and rest._

_In his delirium, he had raged at her, cried into her shoulder, sobbed frightened tears like a child into her breast. And she had held him, her muscled arms tight around his shoulders, her breath hot and surprisingly sweet against his face. “Hush,” she had said. “Don’t let them hear your suffering. Don’t give them that. I have you. I am here with you. We are here. That is enough for now.”_

_But now she isn’t here; and Damon is going out of his fucking mind._

_He doesn’t even want to think about what they are doing to her._

_When they dragged her away, she had fought like a wildcat, spitting and clawing and biting, until one of the men had suggested they take Damon instead, grabbing him by the stump and squeezing until Damon had cried out in pain, his scabs breaking and his wounds beginning to seep blood and pus -- sticky, brownish fluid coating the hand of his captor._

_Elinor had stopped resisting then, the tightly coiled tension in her body unthreading, her head falling low in a grim acceptance of her fate. She had swallowed and stepped in front of him._

_His protector. Always his protector._

_And in the end, she had gone quietly, nodding at Damon on her way out of the cell, her expression strong and slightly desperate beneath the shock of pale hair half-hiding her face._

_He had stared at her, stricken -- every cell in his body crying out for her not to leave. Not to go with them. To stay here with him._

_But she had only turned her blue eyes to him. “Do not react. Don’t give them anything,” her gaze seemed to say._

_And yet -- how can she not give them anything? Give them everything? It is impossible. They will break her. Like they have broken him. They will break her; and it is better if she dies. Better if she never comes back to this cell with its stink of dishonor and defeat and shame. The best he can hope for her is a quick death._

_Damon sniffs, bringing his good hand up to his face, surprised at the wetness under his fingertips. He wipes his palm roughly over his skin. “Don’t give them that,” Elinor’s words echo, and he rubs his hand on his pants hurriedly, ashamed of his own weakness._

_There is a noise at the end of the corridor; and Damon throws himself into the darkest corner of the cell, slumping against the wall in feigned sleep._

_Are they coming for him now? Have they broken her and set their sights back on him?_

_The cell door opens, and a body is pushed through it, stumbling and then falling like dead weight onto the filthy straw._

_“_ _Here’s your girlfriend back,” one of the Qartheen hisses, the words jagged and unfamiliar on his tongue. “Although I don’t think she’s in any condition for fucking right now.”_

_He laughs; and Damon wants to strangle him. He wants to tighten his hand around the man’s windpipe and watch the life slowly bleed out of him -- watch his face go gray and cold, until he is reduced to nothing but a sagging bag of flesh. Damon’s good hand itches to do it, the fingers tensing infinitesimally on the straw, as his heart races._

_The cell doors close with a clang._

_Damon waits until they are gone, and then he moves, runs, sliding across the straw to where Elinor’s body lies._

_“Please gods, please let her be alive,” he thinks desperately, as his good hand claws at the lump of clothes. It may be better for the woman to be dead; for her not to have to deal with this; but the want in Damon overwhelms him. He wants her alive. He wants her with him. He won’t be able to get through any of this without her._

_He rolls her over and winces._

_Her face is a mess of bruises, her lip split and raw, a jagged slash, across her cheek, bleeding and oozing in the weak light._

_“Oh, shit,” Damon whispers, his fingertips running over her swollen eyelids, her broken nose. “What did they do to you, Corporal? Gods, what did they do to you, my lady?”_

_He had started calling her that when he had finally gotten past the delirium and infection, when he had finally recaptured a little of himself again. She had made a quip about his posh upbringing, his antiquated, prep-school manners, trying to coax him out of the dull stupor of pain; and so he had taken to calling her “my lady” -- a honorific that always makes her frown in disapproval._

_“I am no lady,” she would say in irritation, squaring her impressive shoulders. “Stop that.”_

_But Damon found he liked teasing her, making her frown. Besides, Corporal Elinor Costayne is more of a lady than any of the delicately pretty debutantes Damon had met in his life before the war._

_She groans and tries to roll on her side, away from his probing hand._

_Damon scrambles over to the bucket that holds their meager water supply. Holding the cloth still with his stump, he rips off the torn and ragged bottom of his overshirt, cleans it off in the murky water, and returns to where she’s lying, her breath rattling in her chest._

_Shit, they must have broken ribs._

_“Come on, Corporal,” he soothes, sitting back against the wall and then using his good hand and his still oozing stump to heft her up until she is lying between his legs, her back to his chest._

_She moans, trying to close her body like a jackknife -- protect the soft parts of it from him._

_“It’s only me,” he murmurs lowly, stroking a hand through her hair, which is stiff with drying blood. “Come on now, my lady, let me take a look at you. Assess the damage.”_

_She half-opens one swollen eye. “Damon,” she gasps. And Damon can’t stop the slight shock that buzzes up his spine._

_She never calls him that, no matter how much he insists. It’s always ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Sir’ or sometimes, when he’s really winding her up, ‘asshole.’_

_“Yes, Corporal. It’s me. You’re here. You’re safe,” he lies, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting to her injuries._

_He runs the cloth over the gaping slash on her face; and she hisses and furiously bats his hand away._

_“Lie still, woman,” he mutters grimly, trying to examine her wound. “I’m not the enemy. I have to take care of this before it becomes infected.”_

_Something in his tone gets through to her. She is a soldier first. Always a soldier. So she bites her ragged, bleeding lip and submits to the pain of his ministrations._

_They’ve done a number on her. Her face looks like artillery blazes in the morning sky, streaks of purple and bright red and black swirling against a pale white._

_The wound on her cheek is pretty deep. Damon doesn’t know how he will keep the infection out without stitches. He will have to take out another hem on their fatigues, get enough thread to stitch her wound with the dull needle Elinor managed to smuggle from her supply kit when she was first captured, the same needle that she used to stitch up the ragged parts of his wrist, after the Qartheen medic had cauterized it._

_“Did you give them anything?” he whispers._

_He doesn’t care at this point. He’s past the point of caring. Past the point of thinking that there is any honor in this bullshit. Any honor in this war._

_“Name, rank, and serial number,” she mumbles._

_She’s started to shake now in shock and in cold._

_Damon puts the cloth down on a patch of straw and gathers her up in his arms to pull her more solidly into him. However, with his movements, she cries out pitifully, tears running down her swollen face to mix with the blood._

_“What…?” Damon pulls up her shirt, sees the markings of the pipe they used to beat her._

_Broken ribs for sure._

_Suddenly, he’s struck with an incomprehensible thought. “Corporal,” he says, his voice almost wild. “Did they …? Gods, did they try…?” He can’t make his mouth form the words._

_She’s crying now, in earnest; her body shaking with repressed sobs._

_“Shit, did they … did they try...?”_

_“No,” she says, her voice a ragged rasp. “They didn’t have any interest in that. Just beat the hell out of me.”_

_Damon’s body sags against the cold, dank wall. For some strange reason he feels like crying. Instead he pulls her to him, leaning his head onto hers._

_He holds her, letting her cry, trying to wrap as much of his body around her as he can. He knows how much this outward vulnerability takes from her -- knows how hurt and desperate she must be to show such a crack in her careful stoicism._

_“It’s OK, Corporal,” he soothes when her sobs have quieted. “You’re going to be just fine.”_

_She scoffs wetly at that. “Bullshit,” she grits out, pain lacing her tone. “That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. I’m not going to be fine. Neither are you. We’re going to fucking die. Both of us.”_

_Damon inhales sharply at her reproach. This is not her. She is the strong one of the two of them._

_“Come now, my lady, you know…”_

_“There is no way we are getting out of this,” she says again. “They are going to kill us. They are going to keep torturing us and then they are going to kill us.”_

_“Corporal, I hardly think…”_

_“It’s better if we die soon. Better. Better for everyone.” She won’t look at him, her words hanging flat and deflated in the damp air around them._

_Damon is suddenly and inexplicably furious. “No!” he cries, jostling her in his arms, as if he can shake some sense into her._

_She sucks in a painful breath at that, grunting heavily in protest._

_“It’s not better for everyone. I don’t want to fucking die. And I sure as hells don’t want you to fucking die.”_

_“Sir, I’m just being realistic…” she starts._

_“Fuck your Sir! And fuck your goddamn surrender!” He should lower his voice so he doesn’t alert the guards; but he can’t control the fury that is suddenly coursing through his veins._

_“In case you don’t remember, we’re soldiers, Corporal. Soldiers! And we are here -- right now -- alive.”_

_Suddenly his body feels hot -- burning -- and he has the fleeting hope that his anger might transfer some of that warmth to her cold form._

_“All is not lost,” he continues. “And I don’t give a flying fuck about what you plan, but I plan to be alive when this is all over. I plan to return to civilian life -- to my house and my car and my family. I plan to eat until I’m full and take a hot shower and sit out in the grass in the sunlight.”_

_He pulls her back into him roughly, ignoring her groan of pain. “What’s more I plan for you to be alive. And, when we are home and this war is just a fucking painful memory, I plan to ask you out on a goddamn date, and take you to the seashore, and buy you a three course meal that costs half a month’s combat pay, and see what you’re like when you’ve had a little too much wine and you finally lay down these fucking defenses.”_

_She’s gone still in his arms._

_“So don’t tell me it’s better for everyone if we just fucking die -- if you just fucking die! It’s not better for me!”_

_She turns her head, trying to look up at him, but all he sees is a sliver of clear blue from beneath her swollen eyelids. “You want to take me out on a date?”_

_“Yes,” he says, still angry._

_“Why?”_

_“Fuck if I know,” he mutters. “It’s sure as hells not for your sparkling conversational skills.”_

_She frowns, her cracked lip pulling._

_“But right now the thought of it is what’s getting me through this whole thing; so you better not die on me.”_

_He’s acting like a petulant child, but it seems to be working. Against all odds, it seems to be working._

_She shifts a little in his arms, settling back against his chest, relaxing the tension in her shoulders. “You act like it’s an incentive,” she grouses, a little of her old, disapproving tone returning. “Like a date with you would be worth all the torture and pain.”_

_“It would,” he says, smirking at her._

_“Christ, your arrogance holds no bounds, does it?” Her disapproval breaks through her despair; and Damon can only smile._

_“It’s one of my many charms.”_

_She sighs; and he raises his hand to smooth it over her pale hair. “Now, no more talk of dying. OK?”_

_She grumbles but relents. “Fine.”_

_“And I will take you on that date. You just wait and see.”_

_“Whatever,” she says, but her voice has lost the grim defeatedness._

_“I swear it, my lady.”_

_“Gods, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s Elinor. El-in-or. It’s not that difficult, even for a lieutenant who was passed through OCS because of his freaking family connections.”_

_Damon’s smile is pure relief. “Elinor,” he says, the syllables the first sweet thing he’s had in his mouth in a very long time. “It’s a date then, Elinor.”_

_“Awesome. Can’t freaking wait,” she mutters flatly, closing her eyes, the pain and exhaustion finally taking its toll._

_Damon just smiles and dips his head to kiss her temple, his lips tasting the salt of her blood and sweat._

_“Me too, Corpor… um, Elinor. Me too,” he says, before settling her back against his body snugly, protecting her the best he can from the cold and damp, so that she can rest easy._

_For just a moment, rest easy._

_Rest safe._

**_Cut._ **

**~~~~~~**

Jaime tightened his arms around Brienne, pulling her back against him in a vise-like grip, his head coming to nuzzle her shoulder and neck.

Gods, these scenes -- these scenes with Brienne crying in full make-up, her injuries looking so stark and real -- made his heart hurt. Made him almost sick to his stomach. He hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Hells, they had acted together for years, and it hadn’t been a problem in the past. But something had changed; and seeing Brienne hurt -- in pain -- even though she was only acting, killed him.

Jaime moved his face into her hair, closing his eyes tightly against the emotions still lingering from the scene.

“Jaime,” Brienne croaked, her voice slightly strangled but still fond. “Breathe. I need to breathe.” She moved her head, managing a quick kiss to his forehead; and he released her torso in response.

“Sorry,” he murmured sheepishly, dropping his arms to his sides

Brienne grunted and sat up, peeling her body off of him, pushing up on her knees and then rising to her feet.

Smiling down at him, her face still a mass of black and blue and red, she held out her hand; and he grabbed it, using her weight to hoist himself up off of the cold floor, his blasted knees protesting at the movement.

Even after all this time, Jaime’s right leg was still stiff and sore from the accident. And shoots like these, sitting for hours on a cold floor, pretty much guaranteed that it would ache for days.

“You OK?” Brienne said, reaching out to pluck a piece of straw from the back of his hair and frowning slightly in concern. “Is your knee bothering you?”

Jaime smiled at her. “I'm fine,” he assured, waving away her worry. He gestured down to the floor of the set. “That was good, yeah?”

“Good? That was fucking great!” Ygritte, one of the assistant directors, cried, coming over to join them, her red hair wild, flying every which way. “Seriously, I would pay good money just to watch the two of yous read the fucking phone book. You’re like way beyond good.”

Brienne smiled at the praise, her cheeks coloring beneath all of the make-up. “Thanks.”

Jaime winked at Ygritte. “Lots of practice, you know,” he said, reaching out and pulling Brienne over to rest against his side. “We’ve had a whole lot of time to perfect the chemistry.”

“Well, whatever you’ve done, keep on damn doing it,” Ygritte grinned, running an errant hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down. “And I know she doesn’t say much, but Missandei loved it. In fact, she’s coming over now. She’ll tell you herself.”

Ygritte looked back towards the camera where Missandei Naath was making her way over to them, dressed in her normal uniform of black jeans, black combat boots, and a “Women Rule” t-shirt.

Coming up to the assembled group, Missandei nodded at Jaime and Brienne, her face serious. “I think we will need one more take for alternate camera angles.” Her voice was quiet, low.

“Just one more?” Jaime inquired, surprised. “Are you sure you don’t want a couple more? Give you more to choose from in the editing room?”

“One more,” Missandei repeated, looking Jaime squarely in the eye.

At first, it had been difficult for Jaime to get used to Missandei’s sparse, understated style. But she was the director, here -- and by all accounts, a good director. In fact, the _Westerosi Weekly_ had just done a front page spread on Naath, calling her the freshest new voice in the industry.

Offhand Productions had taken a huge gamble on her, handing her the reins to one of their most expensive ventures yet; and Jaime had been slightly reticent about the whole thing. However, Brienne was a fan of Naath, a huge fan of Naath; and Jaime was a huge fan of Brienne. So Naath had been hired.

So far, Jaime was withholding his judgement. The woman was quirky, unconventional, unflappable. However, Naath did seem to understand the emotion behind the script. Some of her directorial choices had shocked the hells out of Jaime -- like the fact that she had insisted that they shoot that last scene in one long take, instead of the multiple scenes mapped out in the original script. However, to Naath’s credit, it seemed to be working. But only two takes? That was insane.

“I want the emotion to be authentic as possible,” Missandei explained. “That,” she gestured to the floor of the set, “was authentic.” She looked at Jaime, her dark eyes enigmatic. “Your fear -- your relief when Elinor is alive -- your reaction when she calls you by your name. If we do too many takes, we will lose it. That energy.”

Brienne nodded solemnly, taking in every word. “Yes. I think you’re right,” she said.

Missandei turned to Brienne, reaching out to grasp her upper arm and squeeze it. The two women shared some sort of weird, inexplicable connection. And Jaime would have felt left out, if it weren’t for the fact that, at the end of the day, he was the one who went home with Brienne, had the connection with Brienne, not Naath.

“Take forty-five minutes,” Missandei said. “Breathe. Rest. Regroup. We will reset and shoot again in forty-five.”

Brienne smiled; and Missandei and Ygritte wandered back over to where the cameras were set up.

“One more take?” Jaime said incredulously, when the women were out of earshot. “That seems overly optimistic. I thought we’d be at this scene all day. How could she possibly get enough footage from two damn takes?”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Brienne cajoled. “You won’t have to spend an entire day on the cold floor. Better for your leg.”

“True,” Jaime conceded. “I guess there is that.” However, he still frowned, looking over towards where Naath and Ygritte were setting up the cameras.

Grinning fondly at him and his worried expression, Brienne threaded her fingers through Jaime's, pulling him gently towards the exit to the soundstage. “Come on, old man. Let’s go eat something before it’s time to do this again.”

“Christ, woman, you are always hungry,” Jaime grumbled, still perturbed about the lack of takes, but allowing himself to be pulled towards the door.

“I work hard,” she protested.

“So do I,” Jaime shot back. “And yet somehow I don’t seem to need a snack every damn hour of the day. Are you sure you don’t have a tapeworm or something?” He looked back at the set, frowning. “Who knows what’s living in that straw.”

Brienne laughed and pulled him through the door and out onto the lot.

At this time of day, the lot was mostly empty -- just the security guard on his golf cart and a few harried PAs running from building to building.

“It’s not a competition, Lannister,” Brienne groused, turning towards him. The make-up and the sunshine was making her blue eyes almost glow; and Jaime swallowed roughly.

“Besides it’s not a fair comparison, and you know it. Your metabolism has been working overtime since the accident. You barely have an appetite, as it is.”

“Oh, I have an appetite,” Jaime argued, coming to an abrupt stop. He yanked on their joined hands pulling her back into him, watching as those blue eyes widened in surprise. “It just doesn’t happen to be for food.” Smirking, he wound his stump around her waist, his left hand coming to her hip and working its way under her shirt to find the warmth of her skin.

“Jaime,” Brienne breathed, looking around her worriedly, trying to untangle herself from his embrace.

One of the PAs, a young kid, fresh out of film school by the looks of him, glanced over at Jaime and Brienne, as he made his way towards the building.

Jaime stilled until the kid disappeared, and then turned back to focus on Brienne.

“Yes, Brienne?” Jaime purred, when the kid was gone. “You were saying?”

Slowly he brought his hand up, palming her waist, sliding it up her side, his thumb slowly tracing across her ribcage.

Brienne sucked in a breath, her eyes going momentarily hazy, before she pulled back, bringing her elbow down on his wandering arm. “Stop. I don’t want people to think I’m fucking the producer.”

“You are fucking the producer.” Jaime raised his eyebrows challengingly, not retracting his hand from her hip.

Sighing, Brienne frowned at him in disapproval. “Don’t be vulgar, Jaime.”

“Christ, woman. You said it first.”

She rolled her eyes, peeling his hand off of her. “Look, it’s difficult enough to be taken seriously as a woman in this business. If people think I only got this role because we are sleeping together, it negates everything I’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”

“Brienne, look around you,” Jaime sighed. “Almost everyone working on this damn show is a woman. Besides, no one who sees you act could ever think that you got where you are by sleeping around.”

“Jaime…”

Jaime held up his hands, “Fine. Fine,” he acquiesced. "But you are making it up to me when we are back at the hotel. Back at the hotel in the room that we share,” he couldn’t resist adding. “The room that everyone in the cast and crew knows that we goddamn share.”

“Fine,” Brienne agreed, blushing.

Placated, she took his hand and set off again, making her way to the empty alleyway where Craft Services usually set up their food trucks.

“That scene felt good,” Jaime said simply, after a few moments of companionable silence.

“Yeah. I thought so too.”

“This feels good.” Jaime pulled down on her hand for emphasis. “Doing this with you. Doing it right this time.”

Brienne gave him a soft smile. “It does.”

“I’m glad you said yes.”

She turned to him, her face in three quarters profile. “I’m glad you talked me into it.”

When the script had come across his desk, Jaime had known. He had known in his very bones that this was it. This was the project -- the project that would mark his return to acting.

In fact, as soon as the movie was greenlit and they had secured all of the necessary funding, Jaime had consulted Dr. Elder about the possibility of using the film as a vehicle to return to work -- had given the old man a draft of the screenplay to peruse.

Initially, Dr. Elder had been worried that the gory amputation arc of the storyline would be triggering -- worried that having to act out the horror of the loss -- the pain and despair -- would set Jaime back in his recovery. However, in the end, Elder had trusted Jaime’s instincts.

_“After all, you are the expert on yourself, my boy.”_

Jaime had frowned at that and had told Elder to shut up because that thought was fucking terrifying. And Elder had laughed and had agreed, but had given Jaime his blessing anyway.

And then Jaime had approached Brienne.

At the time, Brienne had just wrapped her final season of _Knights_ and was taking a well-deserved hiatus -- spending most of her free time in Jaime’s apartment -- most of her free time in Jaime’s bed.

In fact, it was after one particularly vigorous session in that same bed, when they were both panting, limbs heavy and loose in the afterglow, that Jaime had rolled over and asked her.

“You want me to act with you?” Brienne had said, pulling up the sheet to cover her body and turning towards him. “Are you being serious?”

“Completely,” he had replied gravely.

Her expression had gone worried, caution settling into the tiny lines around her eyes. “Jaime, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I mean, the last time …”

“The last time we were different people,” Jaime protested. “The last time we were kids. Besides, even then we were good together on screen. Damn good together. You can’t tell me that we weren’t.”

“Yeah, but that was different. Like you said, we were young. Not dating. Not …”

“In love?”

“Yeah.” Brienne shook her head, not able to keep the fond smile off of her face. “Besides, people will see us together and immediately think Dunc and Roman. It will be like a ‘very _Westerosi_ war story’. We won’t be able to get away from that.”

“I think we will.”

Jaime moved closer, reaching out his good hand to grasp her sheet covered hip. “These two characters, Brienne. They are us. I swear to you. I saw it the first time I read the script. Damon and Elinor. They aren’t high school kids. They aren’t concerned with prom dates and basketball games or college acceptances. They are people beaten down by life, dealing with the very worst of circumstances, battered and broken but still fighting. Their love story...” He broke off.

“Their love story is brutal -- painfully real. It’s not pretty. Not pretty at all. But, Brienne -- I swear to you, it’s one of the most beautiful love stories I think I’ve ever read.”

Brienne bit her lip, thinking. “We might kill each other, though. Working together again. Who knows what it will bring up.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” Jaime smiled. “Besides, I think we’ve dealt with all that.”

He moved even closer to her, focusing on her bottom lip, which was still caught between her teeth. “Honestly, I’m more concerned about overplaying a love scene on camera.”

Jaime’s hand twisted in the sheet, wrapping the fabric around his fingers and pulling it down, slowly exposing the pale softness of her breasts. “Getting carried away and revealing too much of you -- too much of us to the camera.”

Brienne had laughed at that. “There’s no way I’m doing nudity, even if I agree to this.”

“What do you mean?” Jaime pouted. “You were naked on _Knights_. With fucking Stark, I might add -- that ungrateful, little bastard.”

“I was not,” Brienne protested, grinning. “I was wearing modesty patches, and you know it, Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime laughed. “All right. All right. No nudity.” He licked his lips, snuggling close to kiss her jaw, his hand tickling her ribs. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, but her voice was slightly shaky, as his fingers trailed lightly over her breast. “Do I have to audition?”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Jaime had teased, rolling into her until she was sprawled on her back, his hand diving below the sheet. “Let’s start with the sex scene.”

She rolled her eyes groaning at his cheesiness; but he ignored it.

“If I remember correctly, the scene opens with Elinor completely overcome by Damon’s incredible hotness. She can barely hold herself back.” Jaime looked down at Brienne, gravely. “Now, you’re going to have to really sell this.”

“Wait, aren’t they prisoners of war?” Brienne protested, biting her lip when Jaime’s fingers reached their destination. “Injured and starving? Covered in blood and grime?”

“Yeah, well he’s still hot,” Jaime grumbled, biting her earlobe and nuzzling her neck, as his hand started moving. “Now, let’s do this. Start from --- _‘Jaime you are the hottest man that I have ever had between my thighs. You make me feel things I have never felt before.’_ And say it with feeling, Brienne. The audience has to believe it.”

“I thought the character’s name was Damon,” Brienne protested breathily, her skin heating by the second.

“Whatever,” Jaime smirked into her shoulder, mouthing one of her collarbones. “If you have a problem with the script, you’ll have to take it up with the producer.”

His hand below the sheet sped up.

“Maybe I will,” Brienne panted. “Maybe I will take it up with the producer. Give him a piece of my mind.”

“Please do.” Jaime let his mouth trail down the white skin of her chest and then suddenly stilled, looking back up at her. “Wait. Does that mean you’ll do it?”

Brienne had smiled at that, reaching one hand out to card gently through his hair, her fingers tangling in the messy strands. “Jeez, look at you getting me to do things I don’t really want to do, Jaime Lannister,” she said softly. “I guess it’s your superpower.”

And then Jaime didn’t remember much more of that night, only sloppy kisses and crashing bodies and that disconcerting feeling of being so loved and so in love that his body seemed to be bursting at the seams, trying to keep it all in.

Jaime smiled at the memory, side-stepping a golf cart that had been haphazardly parked across the main pathway.

“What are you smirking at, Jaime Lannister?” Brienne bumped his body with hers playfully.

“I’m smiling, not smirking,” he countered. “And I’m just remembering your audition for this movie.

She colored instantly, her face and neck glowing pink. “Christ, Jaime.”

“What?” he said innocently. “You were very good, Brienne. Very convincing.”

“You’re insufferable,” Brienne groused, trying to pull her hand from his. “It’s a good thing that you’re so pretty.”

Jaime grinned a wicked grin. “Oh yeah? How pretty?”

Not letting her untangle her hand, he moved closer to her, his nose brushing against the side of her face.

“Lannister!” Brienne cried in irritation. “You never bloody stop do you?”

“Oh, come on, Brienne,” Jaime smiled. “My dogged persistence is one of my better traits. If it weren’t for my determination to have you in my life, where would we even be now? Surely not here, together -- acting in this …. how did you put it when you were talking to Stark the other day? … Oh yes, this beautiful, raw, groundbreaking film.”

Her face softened. “That’s true.”

“Besides, I think you secretly love the fact that I’m so persistent -- so irritating.” Jaime moved closer to her again. “That I can’t seem to control myself around you.”

“I do love it,” Brienne said simply. “But that’s because I love you. Every part of you.”

The teasing smirk fell from Jaime’s face, and he coughed roughly.

Sometimes the immensity of her love still surprised him. Snuck up on him and knocked him on his ass.

Noticing his instant change in demeanor, Brienne came to a stop, cocking her head and looking at him curiously. “Everything OK?”

Dazed, Jaime nodded his head, blinking to try and get ahold of himself.

He really was getting stupidly sentimental in his old age. He and Elder would have to work on that -- although the old man would probably just tell him it was a good thing to feel feelings.

_“What else are you supposed to do with them, Jaime? They are feelings, after all. They are supposed to be felt.”_

Brienne seemed to notice Jaime’s struggle and reached out a hand, pushing a strand of hair out of his face, her fingers skimming lightly against his forehead and then falling to his jaw. Smiling, she leaned forward slightly, her mouth brushing his, her lips catching on his for a tiny, soft moment, before pulling back. “I do love you, Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime smiled a ragged smile, working to control his emotions. “I love you too.” His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he winced.

However, Brienne only smiled in response. “I think you should kiss me then,” she said quietly.

Jaime huffed at that, shaking his head, before turning to look around him in exaggerated shock. “What? Here? Really, Brienne, you know how uncomfortable I am with PDA. I mean what will people think?”

“Gods,” Brienne groaned, pushing against his shoulder fondly, before turning to make her way towards the craft service food trucks. “You’re impossible.”

“Don’t be mad, Brienne. You know how important it is to keep things professional,” Jaime teased, jogging to keep up with her. “We can’t tip people off to the fact that we might be …” he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “fucking. After all, I think it’s only a matter of time before …”

But he never finished his sentence, because Brienne came to a skidding halt, turning back to him, grabbing a fistful of his army fatigues and pulling his body into hers roughly.

And all Jaime could think, as Brienne’s warm mouth closed over his and Brienne’s strong hands wound around his shoulders, was that all of it had been fucking worth it.

All of the pain and anger and regret and despair -- all of the fighting and the repenting and the loss and the grief had been so damn worth it.

Because it had brought him here.

Here.

To this empty lot on a soundstage being manhandled by Brienne Tarth in the bright sunlight for the whole fucking world to see.

Honestly, how goddamned lucky could one man be?

**~~~~~~**

**Thirteen Years Ago:**

**_Westerosi_ , Season 25, Episode 28: “Begin”**

**Scene 64, Take 10, A-Mark**

_**“Action.”** _

_Roman uses his teeth to tear the end of the packing tape, his fingers tangling in the sticky, brown strip, as he tries to seal the box in front of him._

_Shit. He’s making a mess of this._

_Of course he’s making a mess of this. He’s a fucking mess, isn’t he?_

_He looks over to where Dunc is sorting books, pulling out titles, replacing them, tossing a few into the box in front of her, her face pensive and serious._

_She looks fine._

_Why does she look fine when Roman’s heart feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest?_

_It’s not fair._

_She’s leaving tomorrow._

_It’s no surprise. They’ve known about it forever. After all, it’s been part of Dunc Duncan’s “Big Plan” since he met her._

_Graduate high school as valedictorian; get accepted into some insanely prestigious school on a full-ride scholarship; fly across the country to study biomedical engineering; be insanely successful at everything she does. She’s had the whole fucking thing charted out since she was ten._

_It’s just that Roman doesn’t know where he fits in with all of it._

_“With me,” she told him, when he had asked that very question. “You fit in with me.”_

_But how? How does he fit into her world?_

_He barely passed his first year at Westerosi State as it is. And Westerosi State is miles away from where Dunc is going._

_Fucking miles away from her._

_When he had graduated last year, Roman hadn’t had the grades to go to a really good school._

_Luckily for him, though, basketball and his family’s money had given Roman enough options. And, in the end, he had opted to stay local -- to attend WSU. He said it was because he wanted to stay close to his mother who was still grieving the death of his father. He said it was because he always wanted to play for the WSU Lions, liked the way their blue and silver uniforms looked on him. However, everyone knew that that was a crock a shit. Everyone knew that Roman stayed local because he didn’t want to leave his girlfriend -- didn’t want to leave Dunc, who had one more year of high school to finish._

_Gods, he was pathetic._

_And the stupid part of it -- the really stupid part of it-- was that his choice to stay here only prolonged the inevitable._

_No, Roman had chosen WSU -- chosen to stay in town -- knowing full well that Dunc would eventually leave -- she would graduate and leave._

_And he would be left behind._

_“Throw me the tape will you?” Dunc says, jolting Roman out of his pathetic reverie._

_He throws the tape, and she catches it, deftly tearing a piece off of the roll and efficiently sealing the box of books._

_Why doesn’t she look sad?_

_She should be looking sad, shouldn’t she?_

_“You finished with that?” Dunc asks, nodding to where Roman is staring at the box in front of him, the tape sealing it messy and wrinkled. Definitely not his best work._

_“Yeah, what should I do now?” Roman asks, at a loss._

_He had asked to be here. Asked to help her pack. But now that he is here, all he wants to do is run out the door. Get the fuck out before he breaks down in front of her._

_She gestures to the dresser. “Sock drawer.”_

_Nodding, Roman grabs another box from the pile on the bed and pulls open the drawer -- a jumble of socks springing out from their packed confines, as soon as the drawer is open._

_“Christ, Dunc, what a mess,” he complains. He stirs through the drawer’s contents with his hand. “Are there any actual pairs in here?”_

_“It’s fine,” she waves him off. “Just put them in a box. I’ll sort them when I get there.”_

_He shrugs and starts grabbing handfuls of brightly colored socks._

_Dunc likes wearing weird-ass socks. She collects them, spending a good portion of her babysitting and Christmas money on garishly colored knee socks and ankle socks with strange expressions like **“Shh, I’m overthinking”** and **“I vote for snacks.”**_

_Gods, she’s such a weird, little dork._

_And he’s going to miss her like all fucking hells._

_“Can I keep one of these?” Roman asks, pulling out a knee-high sock with cartoon swords and shields embroidered on it. He remembers her wearing these in his bed one time when she was helping him study for his English 101 final. Not a whole lot of studying got done that night._

_“Why?” Dunc gives him a perplexed look._

_Roman shrugs. “I don’t know. To have something of yours, I guess. I mean, I’d ask for a pair of your underwear but …”_

_“Stop,” Dunc says, coloring._

_She nods at the sock in his hand. “Yeah. Fine. Keep it. The other one is probably in there somewhere, if you want the set.” She cocks her head, looking at him strangely. “Anyway, since when did you get to be so sentimental, Roman Webber?”_

_“Since my girlfriend decided to move across the country,” he tries to joke, but his tone comes out sad, pathetic._

_She seems to notice and frowns in concern. “I’ll be back for fall break,” she assures him. “You’ll barely have time to miss me.”_

_“Yeah,” he says, lying through his fucking teeth._

_He turns back to his task, pulling out another handful of socks, stopping when he feels something stiff and plastic._

_“What’s this?” He pulls out a neon yellow wristband._

_Dunc colors. “Nothing.”_

_But Roman has turned it over, reading the writing on the face of it. “It’s from the fair,” he marvels. “That time I took you when we first started dating.”_

_She grimaces at his words. “We weren’t dating then.”_

_“Yeah, but I wanted to date you.” He smiles, remembering. “I kissed you, anyway. Shit, I was a total goner for you.”_

_“Yeah, well, you had a pretty crappy way of showing it, at the time. If I remember correctly, you stood by and let your sister and her posse insult me -- to my face.” Dunc shrugs and turns to busy herself with her desk drawer. And Roman sucks in a breath, his stomach suddenly feeling sick._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Roman, it’s fine,” she brushes him off. She gives him a distracted smile over her shoulder, and then turns back to her work, carefully packing up her sets of scented pens, brightly colored sticky notes, gold and pale pink stickers, and highlighters and calligraphy pens. “Seriously, water under the bridge.”_

_“No, I’m sorry,” he says again. He runs a hand through his hair, giving her a nervously sheepish look._

_It’s a wonder that she’s even with him at all. He was such an asshole to her for so long._

_“I was kinda a dick back then,” he admits miserably._

_Dunc stops and looks at him, raising her eyebrows, her mouth curling into a smirk. “Oh, there was no kinda about it, Roman Webber. You were fully and completely a dick.”_

_“But I’m better now,” he insists._

_“Jury’s still out,” she teases, pulling open another drawer and frowning at the jumble of colored paper and stationery._

_“No, Dunc, I am -- right? I’m better now. You’re not…” he breaks off, his face nervous. “It’s just that there are so many people out there who are bound to be better than me -- nicer. Good like you. I’m just afraid that you’re going to go out there and see how much of a dick I really am.”_

_She stills, looking up at him, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Roman, I’m sure I’m going to meet tons of people who are nicer than you -- who are a better fit for me.”_

_“Christ, Dunc, this is not helping ... ”_

_He’s started pacing now, the sock drawer forgotten._

_“Let me finish,” she cuts him off, turning in her chair to face him full-on. “Just as, I’m sure, you’ve already met girls at State who are a better fit for you -- prettier, shorter maybe?”_

_“Dunc, how many times do I have to tell you...”_

_“But here’s the thing, it doesn’t matter.”_

_Roman shakes his head, his expression anxious._

_High school couples don’t last._

_He had looked it up. Last night, after she had left his house, he had looked it up._

_Turns out, very few people end up with the person they dated in high school._

_Gods, he’s stupid to think this thing with Dunc can last. She’s leaving, for fuck’s sake. But he just can’t stop himself from pushing -- from pushing and insisting and being needy and so fucking high-maintenance._

_“Of course it matters. How can it not matter?”_

_She looks at him as if he is an idiot. “Because, when it comes to you, I stopped thinking logically a long time ago.”_

_“Well, hell, that makes me feel totally secure,” Roman mutters darkly. He turns back to her sock drawer, grabbing whatever he can reach and just dumping it in the stupid box without even seeing it._

_He feels pathetic, exposing this side of himself._

_Shit, he hates needy assholes. Makes fun of them all the damn time. And yet he isn’t able to stop the insecurity that seems to be bleeding from him._

_Dunc pushes the box she is packing over onto the desk and rises to her feet, walking over to where Roman is standing._

_She grabs his right hand, carefully unfolding his fingers and taking the socks out of his grip, before bringing his hand to her chest to rest over her heart._

_“Dunc, as much as I’d love it, I don’t think we have time for a quickie right now,” Roman jokes. He tries to grin, but he can feel the tears building in the back of his throat._

_Gods, he’s pathetic._

_So damn pathetic._

_This is how she’s going to remember him too. Tomorrow, when she is in her dorm room surrounded by all those other boys who are smarter than he is and nicer than he is and who don’t have all the godsdamn emotional baggage that he carries around with him constantly._

_“Shut it, Webber,” she commands. “Here.”_

_Dunc presses his right hand further into her chest, jarring him from his spiral of anxiety. “Feel that?”_

_It takes a moment, but he feels the strong, steady beat of her heart under his palm, warm and sure._

_“That’s yours, Roman Webber,” she says, before he can answer. “As much as I fought against it -- as much as I sometimes still want to fight against it -- my heart is yours.”_

_She looks at him, her expression solemn and grave and so patently Dunc it makes him want to cry._

_“And I know that I sound like a ridiculous cliché of a naïve, high school girl, and that there’s a good possibility that my words will come back to bite me in the ass, but I think maybe… I don’t know ... maybe it will always be yours.”_

_The tears he’s worked so hard to keep at bay fill his eyes, and he laughs, trying to distract himself from the intensity of the moment, trying to distract himself from the way his heart is painfully jolting in his chest, as if answering hers._

_It feels too big for his body -- this feeling -- and he is suddenly overwhelmed by something fierce and painful and terrifyingly wonderful._

_“Christ, who’s the sentimental sap now?” he finally manages to rasp out past the lump that seems permanently lodged in his throat._

_Dunc smiles that lopsided grin that he used to tease her about but has now come to love more than anything else in the whole stupid world._

_She sees through it, this tough-guy act._

_Sees his struggle to hold it all together._

_Sees him._

_She always sees him._

_“I am,” she replies, her eyes shining. “So what are you going to do about it, Webber?”_

_Roman bites his lip, cocks an eyebrow, and leans in._

**_“Cut.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hell, kids. I guess that’s it then. 
> 
> This all began on an angsty, anxiety-fueled run when people were just starting to lockdown. The Shiny Toy Guns’ “Chemistry of a Car Crash” came on, and suddenly my long-buried, inner emo kid kicked in. I started thinking about life and trauma; and recovery and redemption; and hurt and comfort; and the mistakes we make and the courage it takes to come back from them. And then I thought about Jaime and Brienne; and the story slowly started to take shape. 
> 
> And, as I continued to run and to move through the songs of that day’s playlist, I soon had this weird outline of moments -- of emotions that twisted together to make up a tale -- or rather, four tales -- which, I fully realize, sounds like a truly insane way to plan out a story (spoiler alert -- it is!). I had no idea at that time that this project would grow to be so lengthy or that it would consume almost all of my first year of the pandemic. If I had, I probably would have immediately changed my playlist and put on something more poppy and lighthearted.
> 
> Honestly, it’s been quite a trip, in more ways than one. A trip through lockdowns, and global crises, and racial injustice, and social unrest, and forest fires, and mandatory evacuations, and an ugly election cycle, and anxiety so real that it was almost its own character. I can’t tell you how much your support has meant to me along the way. Truly, the encouragement I have received was the one bright spot of an emotionally and physically exhausting car-crash of a year. 
> 
> Thanks so much for coming along with me as I wrestled with the problematic aspects of this trope, this pairing, these characters, the source material, the film industry, the genre of romance, redemption fics, my own preferences and biases, our collective history, gender politics, the world, and time immemorial. 
> 
> I know this wasn’t your typical love story. But the truth of the matter is that, although I’m a total ride or die J/B shipper, my biggest ship will always be people and mental health. I know therapy and self-analysis and coming to terms with past actions are not the sexiest things in the world to read about. However, I firmly believe that the greatest love story you will ever experience in this lifetime is the one you will have with yourself. Remember to give yourself kudos for that story too -- even for the painfully shitty chapters. 
> 
> Thanks so much for riding shotgun on this batshit crazy, road-trip of a tale. I couldn’t have done it without all of you.
> 
> All my love, Hildy B
> 
> PS: The amazing tuliptoes has created a playlist of all of the songs of this fic. If you want to get the full COACC experience and understand the inspiration behind the words, go here (and make sure to tell tuliptoes that they rock!): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5R8CEWfhoXCxwhMXuhLsKV?si=yWU0_pNkSma4H_FuWprBpg
> 
> And if you haven’t experienced the COACC artwork yet, check it out. A million kudos to Fawn for the incredible artwork and to Natty for commissioning it:  
> here: https://natty-danai.tumblr.com/post/634499767264837632/chemistry-of-a-car-crash-by-hildegardtheb-i-fell 
> 
> and here: https://natty-danai.tumblr.com/post/634581623896145920/westerosis-iconic-couple-duncxroman-this-is 
> 
> and here: https://natty-danai.tumblr.com/post/634864664521670656/briennes-confession-in-the-latest-update-of-coacc
> 
> Finally, a big, sloppy, virtual kiss to all of the readers who shared their personal stories, their unbridled enthusiasm, their questions and hypotheses, their insanely detailed analyses, and their beautiful hearts. There are far too many of you to name here. Just know that I appreciate the ever-living heck out of each and every one of you and that I will miss you like crazy. Saturdays just won’t be the same again.
> 
> **Note: This is the final chapter of COACC. The next chapter contains bonus scenes from "Soldier of Love." Check them out, if you are fans of Damon and Elinor.


	24. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a few, holiday-themed, bonus scenes from "Soldier of Love" for all those who were hoping for a little more Damon and Elinor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the hell is this? I’m supposed to be taking a long-awaited and desperately needed break from all of this nonsense. But it’s the holidays and the pandemic, and this storyline just wouldn’t leave me alone. 
> 
> So if you were hoping that Santa would leave a big ol’ box full of angst for you under the tree -- or if you were wishing for one, last, post-Hanukkah present of a whole lot of hurt and just a tiny touch of comfort -- or if you hate the holidays but were looking for a way to pass a little bit of time on this quiet Saturday in December -- this, my darling, is for you. 
> 
> This is part of the "Soldier of Love" world in "Chemistry of Car Crash." For any new readers who didn’t read the 23 previous (and incredibly bloated) chapters, the characters of Damon and Elinor are played by COACC actors Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth (psst .. actually Damon and Elinor ARE an incarnation of Jaime and Brienne). I think I’ve given enough exposition in this so that it can stand alone; but, if you are confused, go back to Chapter 23 and read the second scene. That should bring you up to date. 
> 
> Shout-out to the lovely Natty, AlicienneOfTarth, CrescentMoonandYellowSuns, ulmo80, lewispanda, joser0824, SeleneU, MelRows, textualhealing, R vg, Intoni, turoquoisecity, parker14, and any other readers who sent kind comments about Lieutenant Brax and Corporal Costayne, even though it was the fifth (yes, the freaking fifth!) storyline I threw at you. It was all of you who inspired me to delve deeper into this world. 
> 
> And, of course, an extra special shoutout to jwolfgold for her recommendation of Wilfred Owen’s World War I poetry, which kept me tethered to this soldier’s story -- and to bi_school_musical, whose review of "Soldier of Love" (“fresh as fuck”!) is now its tag line -- and to Silvia, who threatened to sue, if I didn’t write a spin-off. Happy holidays, y’all!
> 
> *Sorry for the generic Christmas theme of this. You can pretend it’s Hanukkah or Sevenmas or whatever you want. These characters are yours to do with what you will.

**“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”**

**Judy Garland**

**Once again, as in olden days**  
**Happy golden days of yore**  
**Faithful friends who were dear to us**  
**Will be near to us once more**

**Someday soon we all will be together**  
**If the fates allow**  
**Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow**  
**So have yourself a merry little Christmas now**

**~~~~~~**

**_Soldier of Love_ **  
**An Offhand Production**  
**Director: Missandei Naath**  
**Producers: J. Lannister, T. Lannister**

He knows it is almost Christmas because the boy who empties their waste bucket lets it slip.

Damon doesn’t know much Qartheen, but he knows numbers -- useful when trying to figure out how many goddamn rotors are flying in or how many snipers are hidden in the scrubby, endless underbrush that seems to cover this godsforsaken country.

And surprisingly he knows the Qartheen word for Christmas (even though it’s not a holiday here), having watched a dubbed version of some Christmas show or another back on the base last year.

Last year? Jesus, has it really only been one damn year?

It seems like an entirely different lifetime ago.

Since then, Damon’s existence has narrowed to this cell -- to this stinking straw -- to the lousy bowl of tepid soup or rancid hash that he gets once a day -- to the bucket that he shits in -- and to her. To Corporal Elinor Costayne -- cell mate, fellow prisoner of war, huge pain in his ass, and Damon’s only reason for not saying “the hell with it all” and tagging out of this fucking endless nightmare.

The boy hauling their shit wasn’t paying attention to them when he said it. He threw the offhand comment back over his shoulder to the man guarding them while the bucket was being emptied.

“Three days until Christmas,” he had said. And then he had said something else and laughed; and the man had yelled at him and had gestured to Damon and Elinor, and the boy had fallen silent, looking abashed.”

When the boy and the man had left, Damon had turned to Elinor to tell her what he had sussed out. “Three days until Christmas.”

She had blinked those crazy blue eyes at him. And for one moment, he had seen something in them -- seen something pass over the blue of her irises like a signal from a lighthouse; but then they had dulled again.

“That means I’ve been here for almost a year,” she had said quietly. “A year in January.”

He had only nodded stiffly at her, because what could he say to that? She had been here almost a year. They had been here almost a year. Almost a fucking year. Prisoners of war for a whole fucking year. That part of it was difficult to fathom.

Hells, the truth of it is that Damon had never thought he’d live this long.

When he had first been taken prisoner, he had been barely alive, missing a hand and a whole shit-ton of skin on his right side, having taken a direct hit from an IED in a poorly planned and even more poorly executed offensive raid.

The Qartheen medic had patched him up -- well, sort of patched him up. He had given Damon fluids, and cauterized the stump of his right arm, and bandaged his burns, thinking that a soldier of Damon’s rank would be a valuable pawn to trade.

However, they must have found out how worthless their prize really was to the Westerosi army, because, after a day or two, Damon had been moved to this cell and left to rot -- which, he kind of did -- his wound becoming infected almost immediately, his fever spiking into dangerous territory.

There was a while there when Damon had thought he was a goner -- or would have thought that, if his foggy brain had been capable of actual thought at the time.

Luckily for him, Corporal Elinor Costayne from the Fifth Battalion had been there to clean his wounds and wipe down his body when his fever climbed too high -- to hold him tightly against her when the tremors and the chills had threatened to shake out his teeth -- his brain -- his very bones.

And somehow he had come back from it -- come back from the infection and delusions and fever and pain.

Damon had never thought himself a lucky man -- but he had survived. Although, maybe that was the unlucky part of it, after all.

Damon couldn’t decide.

Would it be better to be shot of all of this bullshit? End the pain and the fear and the choking, suffocating dread once and for all?

Some days, probably yes.

But some days, when he and the Corporal are getting along -- trading war stories (literal war stories), joking and taking the piss, and ribbing each other, Damon is very, very happy to still be alive.

Besides, at least, those early days of endless, burning, pain are over.

Not like there isn’t still pain.

Shit, the both of them are constantly being taken for “interrogation” -- beaten, bruised, bloodied -- over and over again, until it becomes just part of life -- something to expect like quarterly taxes or trips to the dentist.

Damon finds it easier when they take him -- because that, at least, he knows he can handle. He survived the worst already when he had been half-blown up by that fucking IED.

Shit, they can beat the fuck out of him. He will just go away inside. Easy, peasy, lemon squee…

Well, not all that easy, actually. But doable, at least. Bearable, at least.

No, the real torture is when they take her. Those goddamn hours when he doesn’t know what is happening to her -- when he imagines the worst.

Sometimes she comes back strong -- her bruised face set and unmovable, her spirit unbent.

But sometimes she comes back cowed -- shaking and wounded and weeping -- one tiny, fragile minute away from giving up.

Those are the days that Damon hates the most. The days when she folds herself around her long legs, trying to collapse into herself and disappear. The days when she’s empty -- gone somewhere he can’t follow -- somewhere dark and cold and far away.

It sometimes takes her ages to come back to herself. She just sits in the cell, in the filthy straw, pale arms wrapped around knobby knees, her blue eyes vacant.

On those days, Damon hovers around her uselessly, trying his best to coax her back into herself -- asking her endless questions -- calling her “my lady” -- trying to goad her, or insult her, or bully her into responding.

But lately, it’s getting more and more difficult to do so.

This last time she had huddled in the corner for days, quiet as a stone, looking at him with dulled, empty eyes, as Damon prattled on.

Her eyes are dull now, as she processes the fact that it has been a year -- a year without word of a ceasefire -- a year without word of a prisoner exchange or a hostage release -- a year without word at all --not one goddamn word --- just fucking silence.

Shit, why had Damon opened his big mouth in the first place? Who cares if it’s almost Christmas? There is no Christmas here -- in this goddamn cell. Why rub salt into an already festering wound?

Fuck, he’s an idiot, as well as an insensitive asshole.

“What was it like for you?”

Her voice is low, quiet even, but it still startles him just the same.

“What? What was _what_ like?”

“Christmas.”

The longing in her voice does something weird to his heart, makes his throat feel tight; but Damon swallows down the emotion, concentrates on keeping her talking, keeping her out of her head.

He shifts his body on the straw. They are still sitting, up against the wall, where they had been herded for the bucket exchange.

Trying for nonchalance, Damon lazily crosses one leg over the other and gives her what he hopes is an easy, friendly smile. He doesn’t want to send her back into that vacant place inside. He wants to keep her here with him.

“As a kid or now?”

“Well, not now,” she says, gesturing to the cell; and Damon’s shoulders sag a bit in relief that she is, at least, making a joke of it.

_Thank god he hasn’t fucked it all up again._

“Oh, Christmas was a huge deal in the Brax house,” he explains, keeping his tone light, almost teasing. “My father was all about the show -- the spectacle. Not a whole lot of warmth, my old man, but hells, the son of a bitch knew how to make it look good.”

Damon waves his left hand around the cell dramatically. “The whole house was decorated -- tastefully, of course. None of that Santa Claus, Frosty the Snowman bullshit. The Brax family didn’t have time for that common, commercial nonsense.” He gives her a slightly sheepish smile.

“The tree was insane, though. Every year, my dad had like a twenty-foot-tall blue spruce trucked in from gods knows where. Took four guys to set it up.”

He huffs, as the memories assail him. “And the presents? Christ, there were so many presents. I mean, if you had seen the piles of presents, you would have thought that the old man actually liked us.”

Elinor frowns at that detail and opens her mouth, but ends up staying silent.

“My little brother and I would spend hours shaking the boxes,” Damon continues, when it’s clear that she’s thought better of her comment. “Feeling their shapes, to see if we could guess what they were.”

He leans his head back against the wall, remembering. “Man, when we were little, we were obsessed with the idea of Santa Claus - probably because my father hated the guy. Every damn year we begged to be able to sleep by the tree on Christmas Eve -- see if we could catch Santa in the act. But my father wouldn’t let us.” He gives her a sardonic smile. “Actually, he didn’t let us believe in the big guy for very long. Didn’t want anyone else taking the credit for the gifts, I guess.” He laughs at that. “Honestly, I don’t blame him. He must have spent a fucking fortune every year.”

“Did you celebrate Christmas Eve or just Christmas?” Elinor has relaxed a bit, as Damon has spun his tale, shifted her long legs, bringing herself a tiny bit closer to him.

He side-eyes her, not able to keep the pleased smile off of his face, although he still proceeds cautiously.

“Oh, yeah. We didn’t do the whole church thing. But we sure as hell ate well.” Damon’s stomach grumbles just thinking of the meal. “Roast beef, potatoes, Grandma Brax’s famous cherry cranberry sauce, these bacony cheesy things with gravy, vegetables galore -- which, as kids, we weren’t as thrilled about -- and these fucking amazing rolls that the cook only made at Christmas. Oh, and eggnog! Not the kind in the carton -- the real, homemade stuff.” His grin widens.

“One Christmas, my brother raided my father’s liquor cabinet. Added three quarters of a bottle of Jack to the eggnog, when the cook wasn’t looking. Luckily, that happened to be the year my father had sworn off sugar, so he wasn’t any the wiser. We kids got pretty lit, though. Caught the giggles and were sent to bed without dessert.” Damon sighs and holds up his stump. “Gods, I’d give my right hand for a glass of that stuff right now.”

Elinor cracks a smile at that, but then bites it back, as if she shouldn’t joke about such things.

“I mean, granted, Christmas wasn’t always the best,” Damon continues, not wanting to paint too perfect of a picture of his childhood. “There were always hurt feelings and anger and that low-level of disappointment that my father constantly had when he looked at us. And, shit, after my mother died, we kind of just went through the motions -- played happy family without ever really being one. But, what I wouldn’t give for one of those Christmases right now.” He looks up at the ceiling. “It’s a hell of a lot better than this.” He gestures with his stump to the cell -- the one fluorescent light blinking from the hallway, as if it were trying to give a shoddy, bloodless rendition of the Christmas star.

Elinor nods, a far away look in her eye.

“What about you?” he asks tentatively.

She hasn’t really shared much about her family -- about her past.

It’s strange, she has wiped the vomit from his face and the shit from his legs, held him through his tremors and delusions, but she’s still pretty guarded about her personal details -- even after a year -- a fucking year together in this cell.

He knows she’s from a little island in the South. He knows she has a brother. Was engaged once years back -- an engagement that didn’t end well. He knows about her time in the army -- the hazing, the battles, the honors and accolades that she was awarded. But that’s it.

Mostly they talk about little things -- superficial things -- music and movies and sports and books, although Damon doesn’t have much to add to the latter conversation.

He has told her some stories about his upbringing, confessed all the sordid details about his now defunct marriage; but she’s been surprisingly reticent about her own past.

“Christmas was …” she breaks off, her blue eyes foggy for a moment. “It probably sounds trite, and more than likely I’m totally idealizing it in retrospect, but it really did seem magical … at least, it did when I was a child.”

“Tell me,” Damon says, adjusting his body so that he’s facing her. “Fuck knows, I could use a little ‘magic’ right at the moment, Corporal.”

And he’s not lying.

He could use it. Hells, he could use anything. Anything that could take him away from this goddamn cell.

She turns her head and gives him a small quirk of her lips; and, inexplicably, Damon finds that his chest hurts.

He squares his shoulders, sits up straighter to help alleviate it.

“Well, I didn’t grow up fancy like you,” she begins. “I mean, we weren’t poor or anything -- lower/middle class, I guess. But I think Christmas was always a bit of a financial stretch for my parents. My brother and I always knew to keep our Christmas list pretty short -- reasonable, you know?”

Damon nods, as if he does know. But he doesn’t. He never wanted for anything in his childhood -- well, love, of course -- but certainly nothing material.

“Actually, the whole of December was pretty special where I come from. The island is made up of mostly fishermen; and those who don’t fish, work at the cannery. And when you work that damn hard all year, you tend to enjoy the hell out of any holidays that you are given. So come December, everyone on the island goes into holiday mode -- decorates their boats with lights and wreaths and greenery and such. My brother Don and I were always in charge of hauling the decorations down from the shed and doing up my dad’s boat to make her…”

“What was the boat called?” Damon interjects, suddenly quite taken with the picture Elinor is painting.

She smiles at that. “The Just Maid. Named for my mother.”

Damon nods, contemplating the Corporal seriously. He can’t help but think that the name fits the daughter as well as the mother -- maybe even more so, although, to be fair, he has no knowledge of Elinor's mother.

“Anyway, it’s pretty festive in December to see the boats out on the water all sparkling with lights. Puts everyone in a good mood. I mean not like a twenty-foot tree or masses of presents or anything like that,” she quips, nodding to Damon, a somewhat teasing smirk on her lips. “But still quite something to see. And then, of course, there’s all the baking and brewing and gift making,” she continues, as if Damon is familiar with any of those activities.

“Did you make your own gifts?”

The story she is telling sounds like something you’d read in a book -- some quaint, idyllic time in the past. Certainly nothing like the hellscape of Qarth with its scarred and burnt landscape, the constant hum and shriek of artillery, the smell of smoke and death. Nothing like this cell -- the stink of it -- the stink of them.

“Some of them.” She frowns. “I was always shit at needlework. Couldn’t sew a straight seam to save my life, as you well know.” She gestures to his stump, to the jagged scar where she had sewn his skin closed, after the infection had finally healed. “But my brother and I were pretty good with woodworking. We made my mom a bookshelf one year that turned out really nice -- almost professional looking.”

“My, my, my, Corporal Costayne. So many hidden talents.” Damon raises his eyebrows cheekily.

“Well, they came in handy during combat,” she snipes back. “I could put together a temporary shelter quicker than anyone -- make a splint, a crutch, a shooting blind, whatever was needed.”

“I don’t doubt it, Corporal,” Damon soothes. “So what about Christmas, then? What was that like?”

“Hmm… well, Christmas Eve was pretty special on the island -- is still pretty special, I guess. When the sun goes down, everyone troops to the dock for the Christmas procession of boats. You should see it, all those big, ruddy fishermen in their best Christmas sweaters and Santa hats with little bells, driving their boats past a crowd of kids.”

“Santa’s boat comes at the very end. It’s all decked out with red, white, and gold lights; and Santa and his helpers throw candy canes and those red, gummy fish …” She grins at him, her eyes alight. “You know -- the kind that stick in your teeth and pull out your fillings? Throws them to the children waiting on the dock. And the kids have their Christmas lists, all rolled up and tied with ribbon, ready to toss into his boat in exchange.”

“After the procession, everyone heads to the church hall for a big chowder dinner with hot rolls and beer and cider prepared by one of the island’s service clubs -- the Sisters of the Seven, or the Loaves and Fishes, or the Greenseers, or whoever is on duty that year. And then everyone goes home.”

“That sounds fucking amazing,” Damon murmurs, blinking.

Suddenly the Brax family Christmases pale in comparison -- twenty-foot trees and mountains of presents, be damned.

“At home, Donny and I would change for bed and hang our stockings. And then Don would nudge the dog over in the dog bed and curl up in front of the fire -- and I would sit on my dad’s lap -- and Dad would read aloud from _Christmas Day in the Morning_. She shakes her head. “Even when I got too big,” she gestures down at her endless legs and huffs out a laugh. “Which was when I was like eight, Dad would always insist. _‘No matter how tall you grow, you will never be too big for your Dad, Ellie,’_ he’d say; and then he’d squeeze me until I laughed.”

She breaks off, swallows hard, blinking rapidly in the hazy light.

“I don’t think my father ever held me,” Damon says, interjecting himself into the emotionally charged moment, giving Elinor time to compose herself. “If he did, I don’t remember it. The idea of sitting on his lap would have never even occurred to me or my brother.”

“What about your mom?” Elinor asks stuffily, her curiosity outweighing her melancholy.

“Probably,” Damon says, shrugging. “I don’t remember her all that much. But probably she would have held me. I mean, that’s what mother’s do, right?”

Elinor gives him a strange look -- a look that almost seems like pity; and Damon laughs, slightly embarrassed.

“Regardless, there wasn’t a whole lot of hugging and holding in the Brax household.”

“Sorry,” she breathes.

“No worries. It was fine. Good for us, really. Made us into men.” He shifts away awkwardly.

“What was the best gift you ever got for Christmas?” Damon hastily changes the subject, uncomfortable with this strange feeling that makes him feel so exposed.

“That’s easy,” Elinor says, a grin lighting up her face. “When I was nine, I got a dog -- this scrappy, wiry, disaster of a thing that looked like a cross between a Wolfhound and fucking moose. Ren was my constant companion and best friend for thirteen years.”

Damon smiles. “Nice.”

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. A car, I guess? I got a pretty sweet Porsche when I was sixteen.”

She snorts at that. “You guess?”

He has the good grace to blush. “Honestly, I don’t remember many of the presents.”

“Too many to keep track of, Lieutenant?”

“Something like that.”

He turns to her. “What would you want now? If you could have anything?”

“To get out of here,” she says, as if it’s a foregone conclusion. “Go home. See my family.”

She looks at him, her eyes so blue. “You?”

“I’d fucking kill for a bath,” he quips; and she laughs.

“Yeah, that too.” Elinor turns her head and sniffs the top of her shoulder, wincing. “Gods, we used to tease my dad about the way he smelled coming off of a days-long fishing trip. But, shit, he smelled like roses compared to me now.”

“So … your dad, he’s still around, right?” Damon asks carefully. _He’s pretty sure of the answer, but ..._

“Yeah,” she says quickly, turning to him in alarm. “God, yeah. Yours is too, though, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“He must be going crazy worrying about you.”

She says it like she means it. Like she’s not trying to make a joke or rub it in.

Damon laughs darkly. “He’s probably patting himself on the back. He told me I was a fucking idiot for volunteering for the front line. That I should have used my enormous privilege to stay at The Keep and fight from a safe distance. And he was right.” He shakes his head. “Shit, I hate that the old man was right.”

Elinor grimaces.

“Your dad, though,” Damon continues, and he can’t keep the wistfulness out of his voice. “He must be worried sick. Worried about you.” His voice cracks on the last word; and she nods.

“I know.” Her voice is a whisper. “Honestly, that’s the hardest thing about all this.” She closes her eyes, leaning back against the wall. “I wonder what he’s doing this year for Christmas. I don’t want him to be sad.”

Damon doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Suddenly he is tired.

So damn tired of it all.

Tired of the war.

Tired of this cell.

Tired of trying to keep it all together.

Tired of hoping.

He lets his head fall back against the wall; and they fall into silence, sitting there on the scratchy straw, the stupid broken light blinking from the hallway, the dulled sounds of artillery booming softly in the background.

**~~~~~~**

When they come for her the next day, Damon is sleeping.

There’s a commotion in the hall, and then the door to their cell is pulled open. And before Damon can get his bearings, they are wrenching her up and out into the corridor.

“Wait!” he cries, not knowing what he’d say, if they did stop.

But they pay no attention to him, roughly pushing Elinor down the hall. And all she can do is give him one panicked look before she is gone.

_It’s not time for this!_

_It’s not fucking time for this!_

The interrogation sessions are regular -- almost like clockwork. Never twice in the same month. And they had taken Elinor only a week ago.

Shit, her bruises from that session are still fading, still slightly greenish on her pale, freckled skin.

_No, it’s his turn! It’s his fucking turn!_

_Gods, why are they taking her AGAIN?_

_Why the hells are they taking her?_

Damon is beside himself.

He paces the length of the cell -- forward and back, forward and back.

_Shit, he’s losing his mind. He’s losing his goddamn mind. And he wants to hurt someone -- hurt someone very badly._

When the boy comes with the bucket of water -- their water supply for the day -- Damon is ready for a fight.

However, sensing this, the boy doesn’t enter. He simply pushes the new bucket in, without taking the empty one, shutting the door quickly and locking it.

Damon rushes the door, his left hand grasping the cold metal, and his useless stump, falling between the bars.

“Where is she?” he growls at the frightened boy. “Where the fuck is she? What are they doing to her? If they kill her… if they fucking kill her, so help me, I’m going to burn this place down! Burn this motherfucker to the ground and everyone in it! Do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me?”

The boy looks at him strangely. Backs away two paces but doesn’t leave. Just stares at Damon.

“Please tell me,” Damon begs, swiftly changing tactics. “Please tell me where she is. What are they doing to her? Are they …”

He can’t say it.

He shakes his head and looks at the boy through watery eyes. “Is she alive?”

The boy nods his head solemnly. “No kill,” he says; and Damon feels like every muscle in his body has turned to water, as he slides down the bars until he is sprawled on the floor.

“No kill,” the boy says again. “No beat… only little.”

“Then what ...” Damon starts. “What are they doing with her?”

“TV,” the boy says. He makes a rectangle in the air with his hands. “Lady. For TV. Alive.”

“They’re filming her?” Damon asks, amazed.

The boy nods.

Gods, they must be trying to broker the release of one of the Qartheen prisoners of war. Hoping that the Westerosi army will be willing to trade Corporal Costayne for one of many Qartheen POWs that it’s holding captive.

Damon wants to cry with relief.

Does actually cry with relief.

“Thank you,” he says to the boy.

The boy nods and starts backing away.

“Wait,” Damon cries, scrambling to his feet, suddenly struck with an impossible idea.

_Could he …?_

_Could the boy be trusted?_

The boy turns to look over his shoulder but stays, watching Damon warily.

Damon pulls out all of the Qartheen he knows -- gestures to the bucket. “Christmas,” he says in Qartheen; and the boy nods. “Christmas. Lady. Hot? (he thinks he’s said that right, but he’s not entirely sure). Water. Soap.”

The boy looks at him puzzled; and Damon repeats the string of words, before bending down to take off his boot.

The boy comes a step or two closer and watches, as Damon pulls off his boot, slips out the leather insole, unearths a folded money note wrapped around a faded and torn picture of his ex-wife.

He holds the note out to the boy. “Hot. Water. Soap. Christmas,” he repeats. “Please.”

The boy looks behind him, takes three paces back; but the pull of the money is too strong, and, suddenly, he surges forward, snatching the note out of Damon’s hand.

He looks at Damon, bites his lip, his face worried.

“Christmas ...” Damon tries again.

However, before Damon can repeat his request, there is a noise from the corridor.

The boy startles, looking at Damon through wide eyes, before pocketing the money and running from the room -- leaving Damon standing, holding a picture of his ex, the cold of the concrete floor seeping up into the threadbare sole of his sock.

**~~~~~~**

Elinor is returned that evening, slightly worse for wear -- a few new bruises on her arms and a darkening mark below her lip. But, on the whole, in one piece.

And this time her spirits are high.

“They filmed me,” she whispers to Damon, tilting her head towards him so that she won’t be overheard. “I had to spout all this bullshit about how well they’re treating us and how civilized they’re being. But I think they are counting on a trade. Trading us for a couple of Qartheen Generals captured in the last siege of the Red Waste. I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying. But, when a guard backhanded me across the mouth, one of the guys in charge stopped him from doing more. Yelled at him about damaging my face, I think.”

Damon winces, reaching up his thumb to skate it across her bruise.

She lets out a breath, blinking rapidly, before pulling her face away.

“I think things are starting to happen,” she says hoarsely, not looking at him. “I think things are finally starting to happen.”

She is so wound up, she can barely sleep that night.

They sleep back to back, curled up on the straw -- close enough to draw warmth from each other, but not close enough to push any boundaries.

Not like Damon cares about boundaries.

But Elinor cares.

It’s strange, the closer they get, the more guarded she seems to be -- especially at night.

After all those nights early on, the nights she had kept him close, holding his wounded body against hers, as he thrashed and shook with fever, Damon had thought that closeness wouldn’t bother her. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Hells, the one freezing night he had cuddled close to her, wrapping his arm around her, she had frozen, before carefully extricating herself from under his arm and scooching away from him.

She had thought he was asleep.

But he wasn’t.

He was awake.

And he hadn’t tried since.

Especially now. Especially since he told her he wanted to take her out, when this stupid war is over and done with. Take her out on a date.

She’s been extra cautious since then. Extra careful.

It doesn’t matter that they share a cell -- that they both shit in the same bucket. She keeps her walls high.

Damon would take her wariness as an insult, as an outright rejection, except he’s caught her, many, many times, looking at him.

And all those times that he’s caught her, it sure as hells seemed like the Corporal liked what she saw.

So he’s decided to just wait her out. Give her the space she needs and hope that, someday, those walls will come down on their own.

Tonight he can feel the excitement in her body, as she thinks about release -- the tension of the muscles stretching across her back, the rapid inhalation filling her ribs.

He wants to tell her to settle down.

That it probably won’t happen.

They will probably be stuck here until the war is over -- if they survive that long.

But he doesn’t have the heart.

Instead, he moves slightly away from her so that he can’t feel her nervous energy; and eventually he falls into a restless sleep, dreaming of fire, and smoke, and pain so sharp it burns.

**~~~~~~~**

The boy must have taken the goddamn money and run, because, the next day, someone new comes to take the waste bucket and fill the water.

Damon sighs.

_Goddamn it._

It’s not like he really needed the money. Not in this fucking cell. But still, it was the last thing he had to barter.

Elinor is surprisingly quiet, her excitement from the day before significantly dulled.

Damon tries to ask her about it; but she waves him off.

Tells him that she doesn’t feel so hot.

Worried, Damon reaches up his hand to feel her forehead; but she bats him away.

“I’m fine. Just a little under the weather.”

He nods and leaves her alone, retreating to the other side of the cell, still pissed as all hells about losing the money.

Dinner is a bleak affair -- certainly not one of the better Christmas Eve feasts that Damon’s had in his thirty-some-odd years.

The stew seems extra sour tonight -- the meat barely cooked, both rubbery and mushy in turn.

_Merry fucking Christmas, indeed._

Elinor doesn’t eat much of it.

After a few bites, she pushes her half-eaten bowl away and leans back against the wall.

“I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

Damon stops, the makeshift spoon freezing halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Getting excited about this?” she says bitterly. “The army doesn’t care about me. I’m certainly not worth a General.” She shakes her head. “They should have used you. The army would be more likely to make a deal for a Lieutenant -- not a lowly Corporal.”

Damon laughs at that. “Christ, they don’t care about me,” he says, placing the bowl and spoon on the ground, so that he can reach out and push on her shoulder fondly, as if she is in on the joke. “I mean, they probably don’t care about you either, but they really, really don’t care about me.” He grins. “I told you about the suicide mission -- the one that lost me this.” He holds up his stump. “Shit, girl, I’m not worth a General. I’m probably not even worth a Private these days.”

“Shut up. You are,” Elinor says stubbornly, pushing out her bruised lip in a sullen pout; and Damon suddenly wonders what it would be like to have that lip in his mouth.

He shakes his head, startled at the thought.

“To you, maybe. But not to them.”

Elinor sighs heavily. “Fuck it all. We’re going to be here until the war is over, aren’t we?”

Damon smiles. “Probably.”

He leans over and bumps her shoulder with his. “But, hey, there’s no one I’d rather share a cell with, Corporal.”

She’s quiet for a long time; and Damon picks up his bowl again. Chokes down another bite.

“Me too, Sir,” she says finally -- softly.

“Hey, now. No more of that ‘Sir’ shit. We agreed,” Damon protests.

Her compliment has disconcerted him, so he falls back on teasing -- the only surefire way he knows to save the moment.

“You keep that up, and I’m going to start with the “my lady” again.”

“Gods, please no,” she groans, covering her ears with her hands.

“What’s that, my lady?”

“Stop,” she says sternly; but, before she can protest more, the door to the hallway corridor creaks open, and the boy comes in, hauling a black bucket that’s half the size of him.

Damon tenses.

The boy doesn’t look at him. Just opens the cell door, pushes the bucket in. Reaches in his pocket for a tattered rag wrapped around a hard object.

He says something in Qartheen that sounds like “one time” or “hour” or something, tossing the rag into the cell, locking the door, and running back out of the hall.

“What the hells?” Elinor breathes; but Damon is already up and on his feet.

He approaches the object cautiously, bends down, and unwraps the tattered rag.

It’s soap.

Hard soap that smells faintly of almonds and something spicy.

Damon straightens, puts the soap and rag under his arm, and walks to the bucket, dipping his left hand into the water.

_Fucking hells, it’s hot._

_It’s fucking hot water._

He could cry. He could fucking cry right here -- right now.

Instead he turns to Elinor, still sitting against the wall watching him, her jaw slack.

“Merry Christmas, my lady.”

She wrinkles her brow. “Don’t call me that.” But she is sitting up, looking at him. “What … what is that?”

Damon smiles. “You said that you’d kill for a bath.”

She shakes her head. “No, you said you kill for a bath.”

“Yeah, but you agreed with me.”

“Is that …?” She rises to her feet, takes a step towards him.

“It’s hot water,” Damon says. He holds out the rag. “And soap.”

“But how …?”

“Merry Christmas,” he says again.

She walks to the bucket, reaches in and lets out a groan. “Jesus. It’s hot.”

She stands to face him. “It’s fucking hot.”

“I know,” he smiles.

“Lieutenant. It’s hot water.” Her voice is high-pitched, incredulous.

“I know. And there’s soap.” He pushes the soap into her hands.

She smells it. Closes her eyes. Opens them again and looks at him strangely.

“I could fucking kiss you.”

He can’t stop the flush that splashes up his face. “I …” he sputters. “Well, I think …”

“You should go first,” Elinor says, handing the soap to him. “I’ll keep watch.”

She gestures to a dark corner of the cell. “Move the bucket into the corner, and I’ll keep a watch on the door.”

However, he grabs her arm before she can get far.

“It’s your present. You go first,” he rasps.

“Lieutenant…”

“No, I insist,” he says. “It’s your fucking present, Corporal. Just accept it graciously and say thank you.”

She does kiss him then, just a faint brush of lips against his cheek that suddenly has all of his blood rushing to where her mouth has pressed and … um, to other places too.

“Thank you,” she whispers and then leans down to pick up the bucket, haul it into the dark corner of the cell.

He stands with his back towards her, but he can still hear her. Hear her shirt dropping to the floor, hear the rasp of the zipper of her pants, hear the splash of the water.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath; and Damon feels his pants start to tighten.

_That isn’t good._

_This is supposed to be her Christmas present. A nice thing for her. And here he is acting like a letch -- a dirty old man who can’t control himself._

He shifts his weight between his feet, trying to conjure up the face of his father mid-lecture -- the old man yelling at him yet again for being too impetuous, too naïve, too stupid.

There’s a bigger splash; and Damon tries not to think of what she’s washing now.

_Football. Football and beer and trucks and Aunt Marjorie’s green bean casserole that smells like feet, and that time he slammed his fingers in the car door, when he actually had fingers on his right hand -- shit, when he actually had a right hand and…_

He’s totally immersed in his thoughts when he feels a soft hand on his shoulder.

He startles, whipping around to meet the clean, scrubbed face of Corporal Elinor Costayne -- her wet, blond hair dripping onto her green fatigues.

“Your turn,” she smiles.

 _Gods, her freckles are cute_. Damon wants to trace them with his finger.

His left hand flexes against his thigh at the thought.

“Water’s still warm,” she says. “Go. I’ll keep watch.”

And so Damon goes, unbuttoning his overshirt with stiff fingers, stripping off his t-shirt, kicking off his boots, pushing down his pants.

And she’s right. The water feels good.

_Fucking good._

He scrubs himself all over, praying that she won’t turn around and find him standing here at a full salute. He’d never live that down. Although, maybe, just maybe, if he asked her really nicely, she might be willing to help him … um … relieve a few things, him finally being clean and all.

His hand on the rag tightens, as he imagines it.

_Shit, Brax, get a hold of yourself. Jesus Christ, man!_

He dips his head in the bucket, takes the soap and scrubs his hair, his beard, under his arms, his painfully excited junk. Washes the soap off with the rag, feeling like years of his life are washing away with all of the grime.

_Gods, this was the best idea he’s had in a very long time._

When he is fully clean, Damon looks down at the pile of dirty clothes.

“I wish we had clean clothes,” he grouses to Elinor’s back.

She grunts. “I kept off my skivvies,” she admits; and Damon almost chokes on his tongue.

“I figured, when you were done, I’d wash them. Let them dry tonight.”

He coughs. “Good idea, Corporal,” he manages. “Socks too, I think. Anything else, and the guards will get suspicious.”

She nods.

Still blushing, Damon extracts his boxers and socks from the pile of soiled fabric and pulls on the rest of his clothes.

He clears his throat. “I’m decent,” he says, his face heating at the lie.

_“You’re not fucking decent,” the voice inside his head chastises. “No decent man would have those thoughts about a fellow soldier on Christmas Eve.”_

Elinor turns to him, appraising him with those ice blue eyes of hers. “You look different,” she says, cocking her head to study him.

“Cleaner,” he quips. “Fewer lice, maybe.”

“Whatever it is, it suits you.”

Suddenly realizing what she’s said, she shakes her head, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Damon grins at her; but she only harrumphs, walking over to the bucket and bending down to wash her undergarments.

Damon joins her, trying not to look too hard at what it is she’s washing.

“How did you arrange all this?”

Damon gives her a smug look. “Santa and I are like this,” he says crossing two fingers of his left hand.”

She snorts. “Oh, please. You’ve never been on Santa’s Nice List in your life, Lieutenant, and you know it.”

“Hey, now, Corporal. Is that any way to talk to someone who just gave you the best Christmas gift you’ll get this year?”

“You mean the only Christmas gift I’ll get this year.”

“The best gift,” he insists.

Suddenly, she stops what she’s doing, looking up at him stricken. “Shit. I don’t … I don’t have anything for you, Sir.”

“You can stop calling me 'Sir,' and we’ll call it even,” he says, rolling his eyes.

She nods, just looking at him earnestly. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she murmurs quietly; and he’s gone.

He’s gone in her eyes.

In the fucking blue of her eyes.

“Damon. My name’s Damon,” he rasps, finally, noticing that his sock is dripping all over his bare feet, wetting the cuff of his pants.

He returns the sock to the bucket, wringing it out one-handed, and then setting it on the straw to dry.

She bites her lip in hesitation, just watching him with those eyes of hers. “Thank you, Damon.”

He nods, suddenly feeling overly warm, despite his wet hair, his bare feet, the chill of the cell.

“You’re very welcome, Elinor.”

**~~~~~~**

The boy comes back and gets rid of the bathwater without anyone being the wiser.

Damon wants to thank him; but the boy shakes his head at him before he can open his mouth. Instead the boy grabs the bucket and rag and locks the cell behind him, muttering something under his breath.

Damon can only make out the word “Christmas.”

The boy leaves the soap; and Elinor carefully hides it under the straw in the corner of the cell. There’s enough to last for a while, if they are careful and not too liberal with its use.

They sift through the straw to find the cleanest patch, not wanting to dirty themselves again, and settle down, back to back, both of them smelling a hells of a lot better than they have in a long-ass time.

Damon wants to say something, make a joke of it, but suddenly his throat feels too tight, his tongue too big.

So they stay silent, lying there, back to back.

Elinor is shifting nervously, squirming to get comfortable; and Damon is about to give up hope of ever getting any sleep, when she speaks.

“Thanks again for the gift.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper.

“My pleasure.”

“I … Honestly, I don’t think I could do this -- get through all this -- without you.”

“You could,” he says simply.

“No, I don’t … I don’t think I could.”

He presses his back into hers firmly in protest. “Bullshit. You’re the strongest fucking person I know, soldier.”

“Bullshit,” she answers him back, her own tone testy. She’s quiet for a beat, and then begrudgingly, “Maybe the second strongest, though?”

He grins. “Oh yeah, and who’s the first, then?”

“You, Sir.”

Her faith in him -- in his abilities -- hits him like a mac truck; and it’s all he can do to stop himself from rolling over and throwing his arm around her.

He goes for a joke instead. “What did I say about calling me 'Sir,' my lady?”

“Sorry. Sorry,” she excuses.

She falls silent for a moment, still restless.

“I feel bad,” she finally mutters. “You gave me such a great gift, and I didn’t give you anything.”

Damon shrugs, hoping she can feel his movement. “I forgive you. It’s not like you had many opportunities to shop for anything this year.” He huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah,” she says dully.

She inhales noisily. Lets out her breath. Inhales again.

“Could I …” she breaks off, falls silent. “Only you mentioned … earlier … when we were talking about family and Christmas...”

Suddenly, she sounds like she’s been running a marathon, her breathing coming in quick, labored puffs.

“You said something about not being held, when you were a kid. About your parents never holding you…”

Damon feels the flush, even in the cold of the night.

He keeps silent, though, letting her struggle through this.

“I just thought… I mean, it’s stupid, I know.”

He hears her swallow.

“I just thought that maybe… you might like me to ...um, hold you? This Christmas Eve? It’d be warmer; and you could just pretend it was your parents -- your family… uh, someone you love?”

Damon shuts his eyes tightly, concentrating on keeping his voice even, his movements small.

 _“Don’t scare her,”_ his brain warns. _“Don’t fucking scare the girl.”_

He is silent too long; and Elinor starts backpedaling.

“Never mind,” she excuses. “It was a stupid idea. Let’s just go to sleep, yeah? Go to …”

“I’d like that,” Damon interrupts her, and feels her back slump, as if she had been holding her breath. “I’d like that very much. Only, I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do.”

“I …” She clears her throat, steadies her voice. “I wouldn’t offer, if I didn’t,” she says firmly, sounding somewhat annoyed at his concern.

Damon nods, steels himself, rolls over.

And, after a deep breath, Elinor mirrors his movements, rolling over to face him.

He can see by the faint, fluorescent light of the hallway that her face is bright red. But somehow it only makes her more lovely.

He reaches up his hand, lets his index finger softly trace the freckles on her scarred cheek, the way he had wanted to earlier. “You’re sure, Corporal?”

She nods; and then, before she can lose her nerve, moves closer to him -- fits her arm around him and pulls his head and upper body into her shoulder and chest.

“Is this OK?”

Damon inhales, smelling the spicy tang of the soap, feeling the slight dampness of her hair, the warmth of her body. “Yeah. This is good.”

They lie quietly together -- their bodies awkward -- adjusting to the proximity of each other -- the feel of each other’s flesh, the hard angles and sharp points -- before finally relaxing, their muscles slowly softening, loosening.

After long moments of silence broken only by their slightly ragged breathing, Damon speaks.

“I want to change my answer.”

“What?” Elinor croaks. Her voice is sleepy -- endearingly rough.

“Earlier -- I said the best gift I ever got was the Porsche. But, it’s not.”

He shifts, burrowing further into her warmth. “The best Christmas gift I ever got is this. This right here.”

She laughs, her chest rising with the action; and Damon can’t stop his grin at the sound. He lifts his head to gaze up at her.

_She is bright._

_So damn bright._

_It almost hurts his eyes to look at her._

“You are such a fucking liar, Lieutenant.” But her arms tighten around him, drawing his head back into the shelter of her body.

“Damon,” he reminds her.

“Damon,” she repeats softly. And then, “Merry Christmas, Damon.”

“Merry Christmas, Elinor.” He speaks the words into her throat, watching her skin tighten and shiver in response.

One of her hands reaches up to tentatively card through his hair; and Damon relaxes into it, reveling in her touch -- in her care -- in the warmth of her neck, the spicy smell of her skin.

And soon -- much too soon -- their breathing regulates.

Their bodies sag and go limp.

And eventually … eventually … they drift off to sleep.

There on the scratchy straw of their cell.

The artillery shelling blessedly silent for one night.

The broken fluorescent light of the hallway blinking its faint, glowing gleam into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judy’s heartbreaking rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CreWsnhQwzY
> 
> Wishing you all the best this strangely quiet and lonely December. All my love, Hildy B. 
> 
> PS: Brienne held out and did not do a nude scene. Jaime, on the other hand, very much did.😉
> 
> PPS: Thank you all so much for the support on the final chapter of COACC. You are truly a gift! 💖


End file.
